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ENGLISH  FICTION, 


FEOM  THE  FIFTH  TO  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 


BY 


AAA^^-^ 


CAEL  HOLLIDAY 


AOTING    HEAD    OP   THE    DEPABTMENT    OF    ENGLISH,    VANDERBILT 
UNIVEBSIXr 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1912 


.[■■yy  \ 


COPTBIGHT,    1912,  BY 

The  Century  Co. 


Published,  June,  1912 


k 


A 

CENTENARY  TRIBUTE 

TO 
CHARLES  DICKENS 


2489tl 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

The  Earliest  Attempts  in  English  Fiction iii 

I.  Social  and  literary  conditions — the  scop — feast  songs 
— sources  of  .early  fiction — Anglo-Saxon  charms.  II. 
Widsith — ^the  Exeter  Book — Widsith's  story — its  national 
traits.  III.  Beowulf — its  age — its  story — its  descrip- 
tions— its  three  episodes — its  historical  basis — older 
stories  in  it — its  construction,  plot,  and  characters — its 
national  traits.  IV.  Deor^s  Complaint — its  story — its 
lyrical  quality — The  Wanderer — its  pessimism — its 
"travel"  story — the  lack  of  a  love  theme — The  Seafarer — 
its  conversational  form — its  plot — its  love  of  the  sea — 
summary  of  earliest  attempts  in  fiction. 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Earliest  Fiction  of  Christian  England  ....  24 
I.  The  Anglo-Saxon  hero — Christian  changes — Caedmon — 
story  of  his  inspiration — his  Biblical  stories — ^his  Genesis 
story — its  Miltonic  sublimity — its  Anglo-Saxon  tone — its 
visualization — Vision  of  the  Rood — the  warrior  Christ — 
improvements  in  fiction.  II.  Cynewulf — the  discovery  of 
him — his  Elene — its  plot — its  descriptions  and  character- 
izations— Crist — its  rushing  descriptions — its  use  of  con- 
versation— its  plot — its  modern  tone — its  personal  note 
— Judith — its  violent  story — its  "woman's  honor"  theme. 
III.  Th^^AJiglOzSiCiaoon  Chronicle — Brunanburh — Maldon — 
the  influence  of  fiction.  IV.  The  Danes — Norman  influ- 
ences— Apollonius  of  Tyre. 

CHAPTER  III 

The  Fiction  of  Norman  England 60 

I.  The  source  and  character  of  the  Norman-French — ^Nor- 
man England — social  conditions — the  effect  of  the  Inva- 
sion. II.  English,  French,  and  Latin  stories — minstrels 
and  gleemen — the  varied  use  of  stories — folk  tales — Horn 
and  Rimenhild — Horn  Childe — Ponthus  et  Sidoine — Have- 

y 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

lok — its  homely  character — Bevis  of  Hampton — Guy  of 
Warwick — Robin  Hood — Sir  Cleges — merry  tales — Land 
of  Cokaygne — The  Friar  and  the  Boy — Tale  of  the  Basin 
— ^Dan  Hugh  Monk — religious  legends — Saints'  Lives — 
The  Smith  and  His  Dame — beast  fables — bestiaries — ^their 
ethical  value — Reynard  the  Fox — Physiologus,  III. 
Sources  of  greater  literature — medieval  idealism — ^Nor- 
man plagiarism.  IV.  The  Classical  Matter — British  be- 
lief in  Trojan  ancestry — Benoit's  Roman  de  Troie — De 
Bello  Trojano — Guido  of  Sicily — Siege  of  Troy — Chaucer's 
use  of  the  theme — ^Lydgate's — Caxton'si — Story  of  Thebes 
— Boccaccio's,  Chaucer's,  Lydgate's,  Caxton's,  Shake- 
speare's, and  Dryden's  use  of  it — Alexander  Cycle — its 
popularity — modernization  of  Alexander — immense  plot 
of  Alexander  story — Gower's  and  Shakespeare's  uses  of 
Apollonius  of  T(yre — Blancheflour  and  Floris — The  Squire 
of  Low  Degree — William  of  Palerne — ^the  Nine  Worthies 
— Aucassin  and  Nicolette.  V.  The  Charlemagne  Cycle, 
or  Matter  of  France — its  popularity  among  common  folk 
— Song  of  Roland — chansons  de  geste — ^their  degeneracy 
into  jest-books — origin  of  Song  of  Roland — Pilgrimage  of 
Charlemagne — Roland  and  Vernagu — Duke  Huon — Spen- 
ser's, Shakespeare's,  and  Keats'  uses  of  it.  VI.  The  Mat- 
ter of  Britain,  or  the  King  Arthur  Legend — its  advantages 
— four  theories  as  to  its  origin — historical  mention  of 
Arthur — Geoffrey  of  Monmouth — contemporary  opinions 
of  his  work — its  fame — Gaimar's  translation  of  it — Paris' 
Chronica  Major — Walter  Map — Wace's  Brut — Layamon's 
Brut — Robert  of  Gloucester — Thomas  Bek — Robert  Man- 
ning— de  Waurin's  Recueil — Caxton's  Cronycles  of  Eng- 
land— ^Malory's  Morte  d' Arthur — the  crude  beginnings — 
Geoffrey's  improvements — ^the  plot — Norman  gratification 
— ^various  additions^ — its  wide  fame.  VII.  Making  the 
cycle — Marie  de  France — Crestien  de  Troyes — Sir  Laun- 
val — ^growth  of  the  characters — ^women  in  the  stories — 
vulgar  versions — The  Boy  and  the  Mantle.  VIII.  The 
Tristram  Story — its  various  versions — its  characters — its 
influence.  IX.  The  Lancelot  Story — its  plot — demands 
of  "courtly  love"— its  "blended  life."  X.  The  Gawain 
Story — Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight — its  Celtic  ele- 
ment— various  versions — Gawain's  popularity.  XI.  The 
Merlin  Story — its  antiquity — Merlin's  precocity — rapid 
growth  of  the  legend — ^Merlin's  lasting  fame.  XII.  The 
Holy  Grail  Story — its  unifying  and  idealistic  influence — 
origins  of  the  grail — Walter  Map's  influence — Malory's 
work.  XIII.  The  Morte  d' Arthur  Story — cause  of  the 
fall — growth  of  the  legend — Malory's  work — "the  Ocean 
of  the  Rivers  of  Story." 

yi 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Fiction  of  the  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  Centuries  104 
I.  National  changes — rise  of  the  common  folk — pic- 
turesque life  of  the  day — the  general  discontent.  II.  Lit- 
erary conditions — the  old  and  the  new  elements  in  fiction 
— ^tales  of  wonder — Friar  Bacon — Friar  Rush — Virgil — 
the  priests'  use  of  "examples" — Eandlyng  Sinne — Ghost 
of  Guy — oriental  narratives — Seven  Sages — Gesta  Ro- 
manorum — its  elements — its  weird  effects — Cursor  Mundi 
— its  symbolism — revisions  of  old  romances — their  de- 
fects— influence  of  Italian  writers.  III.  Chaucer — ^the 
scope  of  his  literary  work — The  Pardoner's  Tale — its 
characterization — The  Nun's  Pries fs  Tale — its  modern 
tone — its  humor — Tale  of  Sir  Thopas — its  satire — Troy- 
his  and  Criseyde — its  analysis  of  character  and  of  emo- 
tion— its  likeness  to  the  novel — Chaucer's  influence  on 
fiction.  IV.  Langland — his  life  and  character — Piers 
Plowman — the  three  versions — the  story — Do  Well,  Do 
Bet,  Do  Best — its  lack  of  plan — its  sincerity — Langland 
vs.  Chaucer — Langland's  limitations — his  character  por- 
trayal. V.  Gower — his  character — his  writings — his 
story  of  Florent — his  popularity  as  a  story-teller.  VI. 
The  decadence — Lydgate — his  Chaucer  imitations — his 
stories — his  popularity — worn  condition  of  the  old  themes 
— influence  of  travel  and  commerce — Mandeville's  Trav- 
els— increasing  desire  for  plausibility. 

CHAPTER  V 

The  Fiction  of  the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centubies  138 
I.  Foreign  fiction — British  protest  against  it — collections 
of  translations — Lady  Lucres — Caxton's  publication  of 
fiction — folk  tales.  II.  Sir  Thomas  More — his  character 
and  career — the  Utopia — its  theories  and  pictures — its 
realism  and  naturalness — other  stories  of  the  Ideal  State. 

III.  The  increase  of  artificialty — Lyly's  Euphues — fiction 
for  women — Lyly's  career — the  plot  of  Euphues — Euphues 
and  His  England — use  of  similes  and  metaphors — use  of 
zoology  and  botany — Lyly's  English  traits — approach  to 
novel  of  manners — sentiment  analysis — rhetorical  value. 

IV.  Shakespeare's,  Jonson's,  and  Scott's  use  of  Euphuism* 
— Lyly's  imitators.  V.  Robert  Greene — his  life  and 
character — Mamillia — Mirror  of  Modesty — Arbasto — Mo- 
rando — Pandosto — Menaphon — Repentance — his  Euphuism. 
— his  ethical  purpose — his  plots — his  realism — Emanuel 
Ford — Parismus — ^Nicholas  Breton — Miseries  of  Mavillia 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

— Two  Excellent  Princes — Mad  Letters — The  Good  and 
the  Bad — the  germ  of  the  society  novel — character 
sketches — ^gathering  of  fiction  elements.  VI.  Lodge's 
Rosalynde — his  career — ^the  plot — ^the  charm.  VII.  Sir 
Philip  Sidney — his  life — Arcadia — its  daintiness — ita 
characters  and  plot — its  descriptions — ^the  living  charac- 
ter of  the  queen — imitations  of  Arcadia — Lady  Wreath's 
Urania — influence  of  Arcadia.  VIIL  Picaresque  tales — 
Thomas  Nash — his  characters — his  realistic  stories — Jach 
Wilton — use  of  details — its  lowly  scenes — Nash's  imita- 
tators.  IX.  Thomas  Dekker's  realistic  stories — Guls 
Home  Booke,  X.  Rise  of  English  prose — Puritan  influ- 
ences— French  fiction — refined  heroism — Catherine  Phil- 
lips— Duchess  of  Newcastle's  Sociable  Letters.  XL 
Koger  Boyle's  Parthenissa — Mrs.  Manley — ^her  indecency 
— The  Power  of  Love — Secret  Memoirs — ^Mrs.  Behn — her 
vileness — ^her  Oroonoko — its  romance  and  realism — its 
plot — the  "child  of  nature."  XII.  John  Bunyan — his 
knowledge  of  men — his  spiritual  experiences — Pilgrim's 
Progress — Holy  War — Mr.  B adman — the  vivid  character- 
ization— the  analysis — ^the  two  kinds  of  realism — ^the 
style — Bunyan's  influence  on  fiction. 

CHAPTER  VI 

The  Fiction  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 192 

I.  Social  and  literary  conditions.  IL  Sir  Roger  de  Cov- 
erley — approach  to  the  "novel"  form — the  hero's  human- 
ness.  III.  Daniel  Defoe — Defoe  vs.  Swift — Defoe's  train- 
ing— his  biographical  work — his  impersonal  tone — ^his 
timeliness — Robinson  Crusoe — sources  of  its  realism — 
Crusoe's  personality — Moll  Flanders — Colonel  Jack — Cap- 
tain Singleton — Defoe's  pictures  of  immorality — Robinson 
Crusoe  not  a  novel.  IV.  Jonathan  Swift — Tale  of  a  Tub 
— Battle  of  the  Books — Defoe  vs.  Swift — Gulliver's  Trav- 
els— its  merciless  descriptions — Swift's  contributions  to 
fiction.  V.  Eliza  Haywood — ^her  use  of  love — Betsy 
Thoughtless — its  defects  and  merits.  VI.  Samuel  Rich- 
ardson— his  character — Pamela — its  analysis — its  moral- 
ity— Clarissa  Harlowe — its  fame — sources  of  its  power — 
Sir  Charles  Grandison — the  hero's  nature — the  ridiculous 
side — Richardson's  contributions  to  fiction.  VII.  Henry 
Fielding — ^his  career — Joseph  Andreivs — its  character  de- 
lineation— Fielding's  knowledge  of  life — Parson  Adams — 
Journey  from  this  World  to  the  Next — Jonathan  Wild 
— Tom  Jones — its  plot — its  characters — its  vigor — Amelia 
— Journal  of  the  Voyage — Fielding's  influence  on  fiction. 
VIIL  Sara  Fielding.  IX.  Tobias  Smollett — his  train- 
viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ing — Roderick  Random — Peregrine  PicJcle — Ferdinand 
Count  Fathom — Sir  Launcelot  Greaves — Adventures  of 
an  Atom — Humphrey  Clinker — savage  analysis — ^the  plots 
— ^the  roughness,  coarseness,  humor — ^the  sea  characters — 
humor  of  Humphrey  Clinker — French  and  Spanish  influ- 
ence on  Smollett — his  gifts  to  fiction.  X.  Laurence 
Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy — his  strange  nature — ^his  Sen- 
timental Journey — his  plagiarism — his  topsy-turvy  meth- 
ods— the  characters — his  delicate  art — his  sarcasm,  XL 
Johnson's  Rasselas — its  plot — its  defects  and  merits. 
XII.  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield — his  nature — the 
impossible  plot — its  spirit,  purity,  humor,  characters — 
cause  of  its  success.  XIII.  Hobby-riding — Johnstone's 
Adventures  of  a  Guinea — Leland's  Longsword — Walpole's 
Castle  of  Otranto — Reeve's  Old  English  Baron — Lee's  Re- 
cess— Gothic  and  historical  romances — Beckford's  Vathek 
— Radcliffe's  Castles  of  Athlin  and  Dunhayne,  Romance 
of  the  Forest  and  Mysteries  of  JJdolpho.  XIV.  The  novel 
of  purpose — "back  to  nature"  theme — Brooke's  Fool  of 
Quality — Day's  Sanford  and  Merton — its  "new  woman" 
— Inchbald's  Simple  Story  and  'Nature  and  Art — demo- 
cratic fiction — Bage's  novels — Holcroft's  Anna  St.  Ives — 
his  anarchy — Charlotte  Smith's  Desmond — Godwin's  Ca- 
leb Williams.  XV.  The  novel  of  manners — Griffith's 
Koran — Mackenzie's  Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  World, 
and  Julia  de  Rouhigne — Graves'  Spiritual  Quixote — Cum- 
berland's Henry — Fanny  Burney — her  Evelina — its  social 
pictures — Cecilia — Burney's  view  of  men — Camilla — ^Ma- 
rie Edgeworth — her  Irish  pictures — Rackrent  Castle — 
Belindd—BuTJiej's  ethical  purpose — her  influence. 

CHAPTER  VII 
Nineteenth  Century  Fiction 284 

I.  Social  and  literary  conditions — -xwJMfcsticists^  vs.  T£a.h 
4ata.-^IL  Jane  Austen — her  calm  realism — her  training 
— Northanger  Abbey — Sense  and  Sensibility — the  "inner 
life" — Austen's  methods — her  characters — Mansfield  Park 
— Emma — Persuasion — ^her  use  of  conversation — her  re- 
serve— her  influence.  III.  Sir  Walter  Scott — his  defects 
— reasons  for  his  success — ^his  virility — his  use  of  his- 
tory— his  romanticism  and  realism — his  methods — his 
heroes — his  social  pictures — ^his  gifts  to  fiction.  IV. 
Scott's  disciples.  V.  Bulwer-Lytton — his  versatility — his 
various  themes — his  qualification — his  formula — Last 
Days  of  Pompeii — his  use  of  history — his  teachers — ^his 
use  of  the  Gothic — his  loss  of  popularity.  VI.  Gothic 
revivals — Colloquies  on  Society — Mrs.  Shelley's  Franken- 
ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

stein — ^Maturin's  Melmoth — Collins'  Woman  in  White  and 
Moonstone — Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland — ^the  vast 
array  of  themes — Irish  fiction — war  and  sea  fiction — 
"travel"  stories — Scotch  realism — Susan  Ferrier — John 
Gait — ^David  Moir — ^English  realism — Mary  Mitford — 
Harriet  Martineau — E.  S.  Barrett — Richard  Barham — 
Dinah  Mulock.  VII.  Benjamin  Disraeli — his  egotism — 
the  originals  of  his  characters — his  rich  imagination — ^his 
characterization — his  style — Contarini  Fleming — Henri- 
etta Temple — Coningshy — Sybil — Tancred,  VIII.  Charles 
Dickens — ^his  personality — ^his  training — ^his  animation — 
his  reforming  tendencies — Theodore  Hook  and  Pierce 
Egan — Pickwick  Papers — humanitarianism — Dickens'  ex- 
aggerations— ^his  inventiveness — ^his  use  of  emotion — ^his 
characters — ^his  idealism — his  appeal  to  the  average 
reader — his  influence.  IX.  Thackeray — ^his  use  of  history 
— Esmond — Vanity  Fair — his  methods — his  cynicism — his 
ethical  purpose — Pendennis — its  sly  sarcasm — the  pathos 
of  disillusionment — The  Virginians — The  Newcomes — his 
increase  of  sentiment — his  attitude  toward  his  charac- 
ters— his  weak  plots — Esmond  vs.  Vanity  Fair — his 
merits.  X.  Austen's  influence — Mrs.  Opie — Miss  Ferrier 
— ^Mrs.  Trollope — Baroness  Toutphoeus — ^Mrs.  Henry 
Wood — ^Dinah  Mulock — Elizabeth  Gaskell — her  realism — 
Cranford — Buth — GaskelFs    influence    on    George    Eliot. 

XI.  Protest  against  Austen — George  Borrow — Charles 
Reade — Charles        Kingsley — Eypatia — Westward       Ho, 

XII.  Charlotte  Bronte — Emily  Bronte — Jane  Eyre — Shir- 
union  with  Lewes — her  sympathy,  pathos,  and  humor — 
ley.  XIII.  George  Eliot — her  gifts  and  training — her 
her  accurate  methods — ^her  ethical  import — causes  of  her 
permanent  success.  XIV.  Realism  vs.  romanticism — 
Blackmore's  Lorna  Doone — Black's  Princess  of  Thule — 
Anthony  Trollope — his  protest — his  characters — his  real- 
istic pictures.  XV.  George  Meredith — his  lack  of  pop- 
ularity— his  poetry  vs.  his  fiction — his  closeness  to  life 
— his  novels — his  psychology — his  heroines — his  humor 
and  pathos — his  future  fame.  XVI.  Thomas  Hardy  vs. 
Meredith — ^Hardy's  bitterness — the  school  of  natural- 
ism— Hardy's  peasant  characters — ^his  themes — ^the  fatal- 
ism of  Tess — Hardy's  use  of  Nature — his  style — his 
defects  and  merits.  XVII.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson — his 
romanticism — his  love  of  chance — his  characters — his  ap- 
parent truthfulness — his  realistic  touches — his  historical 
romances — his  dual  personality — Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde — ^his  group  of  styles — ^his  influence.  XVIII.  George 
Gissing — his  realism  and  pessimism — his  strain  of  ideal- 
ism— his  grasp  of  details — the  value  of  his  work.    XIX. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Various  minor  novelists — ^the  scope  and  use  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  novel. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Twentieth  Centuby  Fiction 377 

I.  Tendencies  of  the  day — impressionism — French  influ- 
ences. II.  McCarthy — ^Lang — Watson — Barrie — Crockett. 
III.  Mrs.  Ward.  IV.  Hall  Caine.  V.  Weyman— Hag- 
gard —  Jerome — ^Hewlett — Pembefton — Corelli — Hawkins 
— Zangwill.  VI.  Conan  Doyle— H.  G.  Wells.  VII.  A. 
C.  Benson— E.  F.  Benson.  VIII.  Snaith— Trevena— De 
Morgan  —  Phillpotts  —  Locke — Quiller-Couch.  IX.  John 
Galsworthy — his  lack  of  ploi>— his  themes — ^his  assur- 
ance. X.  Rudyard  Kipling — his  romanticism  and  real- 
ism— his  character  delineation — ^his  chief  merits. 

Bibliography 413 

INDEX     •••.•••^•.•jiJ'jf*       .<*•••    4uu 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  stream  of  fiction  is  hard  to  follow.  It  has  its 
origin  in  so  many  sources  so  widely  separated  and  so 
divergent  in  character,  and  these  are  in  many  cases  so 
obscured  by  remoteness  or  by  insignificance,  that  they 
are  difficult  to  discover.  When  discovered  they  do  not 
disclose  even  to  daring  conjecture  their  possible  influ- 
ence upon  the  main  current.  The  stream  itself  flows 
with  many  windings  because  turned  in  its  course  by  ad- 
verse conditions  or  actually  forced  out  of  its  normal 
channel  by  insuperable  obstacles.  It  flows  too  with  un- 
steady motion,  now  moving  in  well-defined  limits,  now 
submerging  adjacent  territory  and  well-nigh  engulfing 
kindred  forms  and  becoming  itself  sluggish  in  its  for- 
ward movement;  at  other  times  it  dashes  on  with  in- 
explicable impetuosity  and  then  eddies  around  some 
fixed  point  in  its  course.  Tributaries  feed  this  stream 
all  along  its  course — tributaries  that  demand  but  defy 
full  exploration  and  tempt  the  discoverer  to  lose  him- 
self in  the  mazes  of  their  obscure  sources.  The  author 
of  this  book  has  succeeded  well  in  playing  the  guide  on 
this  stream  with  its  twists  and  turnings,  its  lulling  quiet- 
ness and  restive  dashes,  its  accretions  and  its  losses.  By 
seeing  the  end  from  the  beginning  he  has  kept  himself 
from  being  diverted  from  his  single  purpose  and  has 
certainly  made  the  journey  easier  for  the  next  explorer 
that  comes  this  way. 

Dropping  the  figure  we  may  add  more  directly  that 

xiii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

the  author  has  amassed  a  wealth  of  valuable  material 
difficult  of  easy  access  to  any  one,  and  for  the  general 
reader  well-nigh  inaccessible.  This  is  particularly  true 
of  the  Old  and  Middle  English  stories  inherently  inter- 
estiag  but  rarely  read  because  the  originals  are  forbid- 
ding and  the  modernizations  not  freely  circulated.  He 
has  subjected  this,  and  all  of  his  material,  to  careful, 
though  not  to  studiously  critical  analysis  and  reached 
conclusions  that  are  independent  without  being  whim- 
sically or  perversely  individual.  These  conclusions  are 
in  general  sane  and  suggestive  and  are  set  forth  so  di- 
rectly and  simply,  with  so  little  of  academic  affectation 
and  technical  involutions,  as  to  be  readily  intelligible 
and  highly  entertaining. 

The  plan  of  the  book  is  clear  and  is  sufficiently  ob- 
served to  protect  the  author  and  readers  alike  from  need- 
less wanderings;  and,  in  spite  of  the  irreconcilable  va- 
riety of  the  material,  the  transitions  have  been,  in  the 
main,  skilfully  made  and  the  whole  book  well  articu- 
lated. While  it  is  not  a  book  for  a  single  sitting  it  has 
continued  interest  and  logical  connection. 

This  book  may  be  commended  cordially  and  with  con- 
fidence to  intelligent  readers  desiring  general  informa- 
tion on  this  interesting  development  in  literature;  to 
students  requiring  a  running  account  of  fiction  parallel 
with  their  closer  study;  and  to  those  pursuing  courses 
designed  especially  for  instruction  and  culture. 

Charles  W.  Kent. 
May  20,  1912. 

Charlottesville,  Virginia. 


sav 


PREFACE 

This  book  is  an  attempt  to  show  with  considerable  de- 
tail the  development  of  English  story-telling  from  the 
fifth  to  the  twentieth  century.  It  might,  with  some  ap- 
propriateness be  called  a  study  of  the  story-telling  in- 
stinct among  the  English  people ;  for  the  book  treats,  not 
only  of  the  masterpieces  of  English  narrative,  but  of  the 
crude  efforts  of  our  early  forefathers.  In  the  extent  of 
the  field  thus  covered,  this  volume,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  discover,  stands  alone.  Almost  every  investiga- 
tion of  English  fiction  begins  with  the  first  quarter  of 
the  eighteenth  century ;  only  two  or  three  extend  as  far 
back  as  the  days  of  Shakespeare.  The  present  work  fol- 
lows the  progress  of  the  narrative  art  from  the  days  of 
the  first  Anglo-Saxon  songs  of  heroes  to  the  realistic 
studies  of  life  in  the  present  day. 

Fifteen  hundred  years  of  fiction  is  a  tremendous 
stretch  to  cover;  but  it  is  decidedly  unfair  to  the  sub- 
ject and  to  the  student  of  literature  to  begin  with  Defoe 
and  Richardson,  and  thus  leave  the  impression  that  they 
were  the  first  English  story  tellers.  More,  Lyly,  Lodge, 
and  Greene  were  writing  fiction  long  before ;  the  British 
folk  were  telling  of  King  Arthur,  King  Horn,  and 
Robin  Hood  centuries  before  the  Elizabethans  wrote; 
and  before  the  days  of  Arthur  the  Anglo-Saxons  were 
relating  the  deeds  of  Beowulf.  It  is  a  continuous  story 
to  be  begun  only  at  the  beginniag. 


PREFACE 

I  have  entirely  excluded  American  and  Colonial 
writers.  Cooper  and  Hawthorne  were  not  British; 
neither  are  William  Dean  Howells  and  Henry  James, 
no  matter  how  much  they  have  learned  from  their  Eng- 
lish friends.  Moreover,  American  fiction  is  developing 
such  distinct  traits  that  a  study  of  it  is  worthy  of  a  sep- 
arate volume.     This  I  hope  to  write  at  no  distant  date. 

The  book  is  not  presented  as  a  highly  technical  dis- 
sertation for  specialists  already  well  versed  in  the  evo- 
lution of  this  type  of  literature.  The  effort  has  been  to 
produce  an  untechnical  narrative  of  the  general  changes 
and  processes  through  which  English  story-telling  has 
reached  its  present  form.  Intended  not  only  for  stu- 
dents making  their  first  investigations  in  the  subject, 
but  also  for  the  general  reader  outside  the  college  walls, 
it  is  written  purposely  in  ** popular''  style  and  with  as 
little  delay  on  merely  scholarly  details  as  possible.  This, 
it  is  hoped,  will  not  prove  a  disadvantage  to  the  scholarly 
reader,  while  it  will  undoubtedly  prove  a  distinct  ad- 
vantage to  those  whose  interest  is  not  won  and  retained 
by  scholarship  alone. 

I  wish  to  express  my  thanks  to  Miss  Mary  Hannah 
Johnson,  of  the  Carnegie  Library,  Nashville,  Tennessee, 
for  aid  rendered  on  many  occasions ;  to  Professor  George 
Herbert  Clarke,  of  the  George  Peabody  College  for 
Teachers,  for  his  valuable  suggestions;  and  to  the 
students  in  my  graduate  class  at  Vanderbilt  University 
for  their  interest  and  assistance  while  this  volume  was 
in  the  making. 

Carl  HoLLroAY. 

Vanderbilt  University, 

Nashville,  Tennessee. 
xvi 


ENGLISH  FICTION 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

CHAPTER  I 
The  Earliest  Attempts  est  English  Fiction 

literary  conditions 

Hamlet  once  declared  that  '*the  play  's  the  thing"; 
but  he  would  have  been  much  more  accurate  had  he  said, 
'^The  story  's  the  thing."  All  nations,  savage  or  civil- 
ized, long  for  fiction,  and  it  has  ever  been  thus.  Among 
the  Greeks  Homer  was  but  a  culmination  of  a  multi- 
tude of  legends  and  traditions  that  had  been  told  about 
the  campfire  or  in  the  family  circle  for  hundreds  of 
years ;  Virgil  found  ready  for  his  master  hand  a  mass  of 
folklore  known  to  Romans  for  centuries  before  he  sang 
his  Mneid;  the  French  with  their  Song  of  Roland  and 
the  Germans  with  their  Nibelungen  Lied  are  but  further 
illustrations  of  the  native  and  undying  craving  for  great 
dreams  of  what  might  have  been.  With  none  of  these 
nations  has  the  longing  been  more  persistent  and  more 
evident  than  with  the  English.  From  their  very  birth 
— ^yes,  before  they  were  an  organized  people  bearing  one 
name — they  called  for  stories.  That  man  who  could 
retell  these  legends  in  vigorous  and  inspiring  language 
received  all  honor;  he  stood  next  to  the  king  in  appre- 
ciation and  reverence;  he  was  lovingly  called  the  scop, 

3 


ENCLISH  FICTION 

the  maker,  the  creator;  he  was  expected  to  incite  men 
to  brave  deeds  and  noble  ideals;  he  was  rewarded  with 
liberal  gifts  of  gold  and  of  property;  he  was  the  ad- 
mired molder  of  tribal  emotions  and  purposes. 

To  us  moderns  it  would  be  a  weird  and  fascinating 
experience  to  glance  into  an  ancient  Anglo-Saxon  feast, 
to  see  the  king  and  his  warriors  at  the  table  in  the 
great  hall,  the  crackling  fire  on  stone  hearths  at  either 
end  of  the  long  room,  the  smoke  curling  slowly  through 
wide  holes  in  the  roof  or  lingering  among  the  blackened 
rafters,  and  along  the  walls  the  stone  benches  where 
the  long-haired  harpers  sat,  taking  their  turn  at  sing- 
ing the  deeds  of  old-time  heroes  or  chanting  in  unison 
the  brave  battles  and  victories  of  their  present  chief. 
Every  man  in  that  hall,  from  the  king  to  the  humblest 
soldier,  was  expected  to  be  a  singer  and  to  have  in 
memory  a  store  of  ballads  of  olden  days;  and  often, 
under  the  excitement  of  the  music  and  ale,  the  chief 
or  some  warrior  snatched  the  harp  from  the  hands  of  a 
minstrel,  burst  forth  into  a  mighty  battle  song,  and 
then  passed  the  instrument  to  another  of  the  feasters 
to  add  to  the  unwritten  volume  of  legendary  lore. 

Innumerable  were  the  stories  of  that  day.  Unfortu- 
nately, however,  during  the  incursions  of  the  mad-hearted 
Danes  in  the  eighth  and  ninth  centuries  a  multitude 
of  manuscripts  containing  these  ancient  tales  were  de- 
stroyed. Still,  fate  was  not  entirely  heartless;  there 
remain  enough  shriveled  parchments  to  show  the  form, 
the  style,  the  spirit,  and  the  ideals  of  our  primitive  fic- 
tion. In  these  we  may  trace  the  first  rude  gropings 
in  that  art  which,  more  than  a  thousand  years  later, 

4 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

made  the  names  of  Scott,  Thackeray,  and  Dickens  fa- 
mous throughout  the  world. 

Stop  ford  Brooke^  has  said:  *'As  far  as  we  can  go 
back  with  certainty  we  find  the  Teutonic  tribes  harpists 
or  singers.  .  .  .  Religion  and  war  were  the  fullest 
sources  of  their  poetry.  ...  At  one  special  point 
their  religion  and  their  war  .  .  .  were  combined 
into  song — ^in  the  mingling  of  the  great  myths  with  the 
lives  of  tribal  heroes.  .  .  .  The  doings  of  the  light 
and  darkness,  of  the  heat  and  cold,  were  made  into 
mythical  stories  which  gathered  around  a  few  and  after- 
wards around  many  gods  whom  the  personating  passion 
of  mankind  fitted  to  the  various  doings  of  Nature. 
.  .  .  These  stories  grew  into  legends  and  sagas  of  the 
gods.  .  .  .  But  the  myths  thus  existing  took  a  fresh 
life  in  the  war  stories.  When  a  great  hero  arose,  did 
famous  deeds,  and  died,  his  history  grew  into  a  saga. 
.  .  .  Then,  because  wonder  must  belong  to  him,  the 
Nature  myths  stole  also  into  history,  and  the  tales  of 
winter  and  summer,  of  the  gentle  doings  of  the  light, 
and  of  the  battle  of  light  with  darkness,  were  modified 
and  varied  into  the  hero's  real  adventures  till  at  last 
we  can  scarcely  distinguish  between  the  hero  and  the 
divine  being.  .  .  .  Thus  both  the  fruitful  sources 
of  poetry,  worship  and  battle,  gave  passion  and  dignity 
to  the  character  and  deeds  of  the  hero." 

The  commonest  things  of  life,  however,  as  well  as 
worship  and  battle,  were  also  sources  and  causes  of 
fiction.     Even  the  brief  charms  chanted  by  the  peasant 

1  English  Literature  from  the  Beginning  to  the  Norman  Con- 
quest, p.  41. 

5 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

when  he  was  sowing  or  reaping  often  contained  hints 
of  legends  or  bits  of  plot  pregnant  with  imagination 
and  dramatic  possibilities.  The  tribal  medicine-man,  in 
his  efforts  to  cure  the  patient,  shook  his  shield  above  the 
diseased  man  and  sang  defiantly  to  the  witch-maidens, 
the  Valkyrie: 

Loud  were  they,  lo!  loud,  as  over  the  land  they  rode; 
Fierce  of  heart  were  they,  as  over  the  hill  they  rode! 
Shield  thee   now  thyself,   from  their    spite  thou   may'st   escape 
thee. 

Out,  little  spear,  if  herein  thou  be ! 
Underneath  the  linden  stand  I,  underneath  the  shining  shield, 
For  the  might  maidens  have  mustered  up  their  strength, 
And  have  sent  their  spear  screaming  through  the  air! 
Back  again  to  them  will  I  send  another. 
Arrow  forth  a-flying  from  the  front  against  them! 

Out,  little  spear,  if  herein  thou  be! 

And  even  the  riddles  that  came  in  a  later  day  were 
frequently  in  a  story  form ;  as  when  the  moon  is  repre- 
sented as  a  young  warrior  hurrying  with  stolen  treasure 
to  his  castle,  the  sun  pursuing,  and  the  night  stealing 
upon  the  sun  and  destroying  him.  Long  ago,  then, 
our  forefathers  realized  the  joy  of  a  creative  imagina- 
tion. 

WIDSITH 

One  of  the  earliest  bits  of  fiction  now  existing — per- 
haps the  oldest  in  any  Germanic  language — is  the  frag- 
ment known  as  Widsith  {Far  Away  or  the  Far  Trav- 
eler). Found  in  a  manuscript  volume,  the  Exeter 
Book,  presented  to  Exeter  Cathedral  by  Bishop  Leofric 
in  1071,  the  present  form  of  this  story  of  travel  is  doubt- 
less a  recast  of  some  ancient  lines  sung  probably  as 

6 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

early  as  A.  D.  400.  True,  it  contains  names  of  mon- 
arehs  who  lived  as  late  as  520;  but  these,  it  would 
appear,  could  easily  have  been  added  from  century  to 
century  by  new  singers.  The  harpist  tells  of  his  far 
journeys,  of  the  kings  and  nations  he  has  met,  and  of 
how  he  has  fired  their  ambition  by  his  glorious  songs 
of  their  deeds.  **Widsith  told  his  story;  he  unlocked 
his  word-hoard, — he  who  of  all  men  had  seen  the  most 
kindreds  and  nations,  and  who  for  his  singing  often  re- 
ceived gifts  in  the  hall.'' 

Thus  I  traveled  through  strange  lands  and  learnt 
Of  good  and  evil  in  the  spacious  world; 
Parted  from  home-friends  and  dear  kindred,  far 
The  ways  I  followed.     Therefore  I  can  sing 
And  tell  a  tale,  recount  in  the  Mead  Hall 
How  men  of  high  race  gave  gifts  to  me. 

1*1 
When  I  and  Skilling  for  our  conquering  Lord, 
With  clear  voice  raised  the  song  loud  to  the  harp. 
The  sound  was  music;  many  a  stately  man, 
Who  well  knew  what  was  right,  then  said  in  words 
That  never  had  they  heard  a  happier  song. 

So  have  I  ever  found  in  journeying 

That  he  is  to  the  dwellers  in  a  land 

The  dearest,  to  whom  God  gives,  while  he  lives 

Here  upon  earth,  to  hold  rule  over  men. 

Thus  wandering,  they  who  shape  songs  for  men 

Pass  over  many  lands,  and  tell  their  need. 

And  speak  their  thanks,  and  ever,  south  or  north, 

Meet  someone  skilled  in  songs  and  free  in  gifts. 

Who  would  be  raised  among  his  friends  to  fame 

And  do  brave  deeds  till  light  and  life  are  gone. 

He  who  has  thus  wrought  himself  praise  shall  have 

A  settled  glory  underneath  the  stars. 

7 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Thus  even  in  our  oldest  bit  of  story  we  find  those 
traits  that  have  been  characteristic  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
at  his  best:  personal  bravery,  the  traveling  instinct, 
hospitality,  liberality,  and  an  irrepressible  craving  for 
a  fame  that  will  carry  his  name  down  through  the  ages. 
The  story  itself  is  but  ordinary — the  brief  and  partly 
imaginary  account  of  a  wanderer's  wayfaring — ^but  as  a 
character  sketch  it  has  a  tone  of  sincerity  and  an  en- 
thusiasm that  are  admirable. 

BEOWULF 

Doubtless  the  greatest  story  that  these  wandering 
gleemen  chanted  was  the  famous  epic,  Beowulf.  As  a 
tale  of  heroic  deeds  it  has  seldom  been  surpassed  in  the 
world's  literature,  and  to  this  day,  when  phrased  in 
modern  language,  it  never  fails  to  grip  the  interest  of 
a  popular  audience.  When  it  was  first  sung  we  shall 
never  be  able  to  tell.  Although  the  manuscript  of  it, 
first  published  in  1815  by  a  Danish  scholar,  Thorkelin, 
was  written  probably  about  950,  the  story  itself  was 
told  in  part  as  early  as  450,  and  probably  had  reached 
a  fairly  complete  form  by  600.  It  is  by  far  the  oldest 
existing  epic  in  any  Germanic  language,  and  in  the 
characteristics  of  its  principal  hero  the  noblest  of  them 
all. 

Here  we  find  the  ideal  of  Anglo-Saxon  manhood,  and 
centering  about  him  a  mass  of  vigorous  fiction  sufficient 
for  several  modem  novels  of  the  most  strenuous  type. 
The  tale  opens  with  an  account  of  the  ancestry  of 
Hrothgar,  the  king  of  the  Danes,  one  of  whose  fore- 
fathers was  Scyld,  the  tribal  teacher  of  agriculture, 
who,  as  a  babe,  had  been  foimd  sleeping  on  a  sheaf 

8 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

of  grain  in  a  boat  floating  toward  the  shore.  And  just 
here  is  a  legend  ancient  of  days.  Moses  was  found  in  a 
grass-lined  boat;  Arthur  is  said  to  have  come  in  a  boat 
from  *'over  the  waters/'  and  at  his  death  mysterious 
women  took  his  body  in  a  barge  out  into  the  dark  sea. 
Now,  Hrothgar  built  a  banquet-hall,  a  vast  *' mead- 
hall,"  where  he  and  his  warriors  might  feast  after  their 
victories.  It  was  called  ^'Heorof  because  at  either 
end  hart  or  deer  antlers  thrust  forth  from  the  gables. 
Here  many  a  drinking  bout  was  held,  and  the  min- 
strel's harp  rang  loudly.  But  far  down  in  the  swampy 
depths  of  the  forest  lived  a  monster,  Grendel,  a  hater 
of  mankind,  ''divided  from  all  joy,"  and  he,  loathing 
the  sound  of  pleasant  revelry,  determined  in  direful 
mood  to  destroy  those  that  sang  so  heartily  in  the 
mighty  banquet-room.  Then  through  the  darkness  he 
came  creeping  under  the  moonlit  fog,  burst  open  the 
iron-bound  door,  and  devoured  many  a  sleeping  warrior, , 
and  stalked  away  to  his  den,  singing  in  gleeful  triumph. 
All  was  desolation  in  the  kingdom  of  Hrothgar;  the 
broad  feast-hall  was  deserted;  there  was  neither  wish 
nor  place  for  revelry. 

In  another  land,  the  kingdom  of  Hygelac,  the  chief 
of  the  Geats,  lived  a  youthful  warrior  of  marvelous 
strength.  His  name  was  Beowulf.  Hearing  of  the 
despair  of  Hrothgar,  he  went  down  to  sea  with  his  men 
and  sailed  to  the  troubled  kingdom.  Many  are  the 
Anglo-Saxon  customs  now  described;  the  story  is  _a 
treasure-house  for  the  historian  of  early  English  life. 
Beowulf  is  met  on  the  shore  by  a  guard  who  inquires 
his  business,  praises  his  manly  bearing,  and  then  leads 
him  to  the  village.     As  they  approach  they  see  from 

9 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  top  of  a  cliff  the  metal  roof  of  Heorot  glittering 
under  the  sun,  the  little  group  of  village  homes,  the 
narrow  strip  of  cultivated  land  beyond,  and  then  the 
gloomy  forest  sweeping  on  to  the  horizon.  The  guests 
thrust  their  spears  into  the  ground  before  the  hall — 
for  no  armed  visitor  might  enter  the  Anglo-Saxon  home 
— and  Hrothgar  welcomes  them  with  stately  speech. 
Then  there  is  feasting,  and  gifts  are  exchanged,  and 
Beowulf  boasts  of  what  he  shall  do  when  he  meets  the 
monster. 

Now   comes   the   night.     Hrothgar 's   men   leave   the 
hall ;  Beowulf  and  his  warriors  lie  in  sleep  on  the  floor. 

Then  from  the  moor  under  the  shroud  of  mist. 
Came  Grendel  striding.     Wrath  of  God  he  bore. 
Scather  of  men,  he  thought  in  the  high  hall 
To  snare  one  of  man's  race.     Shrouded  he  went 
Till  he  saw  clearly  the  gold-hall  of  men, 
The  wine-house,  gay  with  cups;  nor  then  first  sought 
The  home  of  Hrothgar.     .     .     . 
.     .     .     Journeying  to  the  house 
Came  then  the  being  divided  from  all  joys; 
Quickly  he  rushed  upon  the  door  made  fast 
With  bands  fire-hardened;  with  his  hands  broke  through, 
For  he  was  swollen  with  rage — through  the  house's  mouth. 
Then  soon  upon  the  many-colored  floor 
The  foe  trod;  on  he  went  with  ireful  mood. 
Came  from  his  eyes  a  fierce  light  likest  fire. 
He  saw  within  the  hall  a  kindred  band 
Of  many  men  asleep,  a  company 
Of  comrades  all  together;  then  he  laughed. 
"...     Nor  meant  the  wretch 

Delay,  for  at  the  first  he  swiftly  seized 
A  sleeper,  slit  him  unaware,  bit  through 
His  bone-case,  from  his  veins  drank  blood,  and  soon 
Swallowing  in  large  lumps,  had  eaten  all 
10 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  dead  man,  feet  and  hands.     Then  nearer,  forth 
He  stepped,  laid  hands  on  the  stout-hearted  chief 
Upon  his  couch;  with  his  hand  the  foe 
Reached  toward  him.     He  instantly  grappled 
With  the  evil-minded,  and  on  his  arm  rested. 

Then  when  the  fiend  realized  that  never  ''had  he 
found  a  stronger  hand-grip,"  his  mind  grew  fearful 
and  he  longed  to  be  away.  But  he  might  not.  The 
hand  of  Beowulf,  crushing  his  fingers,  held  him  fast. 

The  princely  hall  thundered;  terror  was 

On  all  the  Danes,  the  city-dwellers, 

Each  valiant  one,  while  both  the  fierce 

Strong   warriors    raged;    the   mansion   resounded. 

Not  for  aught  would  this  saviour  of  earls 
Leave  alive  the  deadly  guest; 
The  days  of  his  life  he  counted  not  useful 
To  any  folk.     .     .     . 

He  that  was  Grod's  foe  found  that  his  body  failed 

To  serve  him,  because  Hygelac's  bold  kinsman 

Had  him  in  hand.     .     .     . 

.     .     .     A  deadly  wound 

Appeared  on  his  shoulder,  his   sinews  snapped. 

His  bone-casings  burst.     Glory  of  battle 

Was  to  Beowulf  given.     Grendel  must  thence, 

Death-sick,  to  his  fen-shades  flee. 

Seek  his  sad  home,  well  knowing  that  the  end  of  life 

Was  come,  the  number  of  his  days  past. 

This,  then,  is  the  first  episode  of  the  story.  There 
is  feasting  the  next  day;  Beowulf  is  laden  with  gifts; 
the  queen  brings  her  son  to  receive  his  advice;  he  is 
admired  of  all.  The  banquet  continues  into  the  night; 
and  then  Beowulf  and  his  men,  going  out  into  the  vil- 
li 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

lage  to  sleep,  leave  the  hall  to  Hrothgar's  men.  But 
now  from  the  darkness  of  the  forest  comes  Grendel's 
mother,  wild  for  revenge.  Hideous  is  she — ^shaggy,  mad- 
eyed,  tortured  with  hatred. 

The  woman-demon  remembered  her  misery. 

She  that  the  watery  horrors,  the  cold  streams. 

Had  to  inhabit.     .     .     . 

So  came  she  to  Heorot,  to  where  the  king  Danes 

Throughout  the  haH  slept.     ... 

Then  in  the  hall  the  hard  edge  was  drawn. 

The  sword  o'er  the  seats,  many  a  broad  shield 

Lifted  firm  in  hand.     .     .     . 

One  of  the  nobles  she  quickly  had 

With  grip  fast  seized,  as  she  went  to  the  fen, 

A  mighty  shield-warrior  whom  she  killed, 
A  hero  renowned. 

In  the  morning  came  Beowulf  wishing  his  host  happi- 
ness.    ^^Alas,"  exclaimed  Hrothgar, 

"Ask  not  after  happiness!     Grief  is  renewed 
To  the  folk  of  the  Danes." 

Enraged  by  the  tale  of  horror  that  follows,  Beowulf 
determines  to  go  down  into  the  watery  cavern  where 
the  demon-mother  lives,  and  there  attack  her.  Sadly 
his  men  follow  him  to  the  edge  of  the  lake  or  ocean  inlet, 
where  the  water  is  so  dark  and  loathsome  that  the  deer 
pursued  by  the  dogs  lies  down  to  be  devoured  rather 
than  swim  across.  Beowulf  plunges  in,  and,  among 
horrid  monsters  of  the  deep,  sinks  to  the  bottom.  As 
he  nears  the  sandy  floor,  a  great,  hairy  arm  reaches  out 
and  snatches  him  into  the  cavern.  Then  is  a  mighty 
battle  fought.     All  day  they  struggle;   but  even  the 

12 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

hero's  vast  strength  proves  unable  to  destroy  the  sinewy 
fiend. 

On  her  head  his  ringed  brand  sang 
A  horrid  war-song. 

But  his  trusted  sword  failed  him  in  this  time  of  dire 
need;  he  despaired  of  life. 

Then  he  saw  'mongst  the  arms  a  victorious  falchion. 
An  old  jotun-sword,  of  edges  doughty. 
The  glory  of  warriors     .     .     .    the  work  of  giants. 
The  knotted  hilt  seized  he,  the  Scyldings'  warrior- 
Fierce  and  deadly  grim,  the  ringed  sword  swung. 
Despairing  of  life,  he  angrily  struck. 
That  'gainst  her  neck  it  griped  her  hard. 
Her  bone-rings  broke.     Through  her  fated  carcass 
The  falchion  passed;  on  the  ground  she  sank; 
The  blade  was  gory;  the  man  joy'd  in  his  work. 

Back  to  outer  air,  back  to  Heorot  the  hero  goes  in 
triumph.  His  ship  is  filled  with  gifts.  Glorious  in 
fame,  he  sails  away  to  the  land  of  the  Geats,  the  king- 
dom of  Hygelac.     Thus  ends  the  second  episode. 

Sixty  years  now  pass,  and  Beowulf  is  in  his  eightieth 
year.  The  day  of  his  last  struggle  against  evil  is  at 
hand.  He  has  ruled  the  Geats  more  than  fifty  years, 
and  he  is  the  admiration  and  fear  of  all  his  neighbors. 
In  ancient  days  another  people  had  lived  in  this  land 
— a  people  who  had  all  perished  under  some  devouring 
scourge,  and  their  prince,  before  he  laid  him  down  to 
die,  had  hidden  the  nation's  treasures  in  a  mound. 
This  heap  of  gold  a  fire-breathing  dragon  had  found, 
and  day  by  day  watched  over  it  in  a  deep  cavern. 
One  morning  a  peasant  discovered  the  treasure  while 

13 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  dragon  was  away,  and  stole  a  golden  cup  from  the 
heap.  Then  the  dragon,  in  his  rage,  went  forth  upon 
the  land,  breathed  flame  upon  field  and  village,  and 
brought  sorrow  to  all  the  folk  of  Beowulf. 

Like  a  true  Anglo-Saxon  monarch,  Beowulf,  old  as 
he  is,  feels  it  his  duty  to  go  out  against  the  monster. 
Thus  the  third  episode  begins.  Beowulf  approaches 
the  mouth  of  the  cavern;  at  the  sight  of  the  dragon  all 
the  warriors  save  the  young  kinsman,  Wiglaf,  flee;  and 
there  with  their  backs  to  the  wall  and  a  great  iron  shield 
before  them,  the  old  man  and  the  boy  fight  the  enemy 
of  their  country.  The  victory  is  theirs;  but  Beowulf 
has  breathed  the  poisonous  flames  of  the  dragon,  and 
death  is  at  hand.  He  bids  the  boy  bring  forth  the 
treasure,  and,  as  he  looks  upon  it,  he  tells  the  course  of 
his  life.  Then  cries  he,  *  *  I  thank  the  glorious  King  that 
ere  I  die  I  have  won  these  things  for  my  people;  have 
paid  my  old  life  for  them."  Then,  with  true  Anglo- 
Saxon  longing  for  remembrance  after  death,  he  whis- 
pers: 

Bid  the  battle-famed  build  a  barrow  high. 

Clear  to  see  when  bale  is  burnt,  on  the  bluffs  above  the  surge, 

Thus  it  may  for  folk  of  mine,  for  remembering  of  me, 

Lift  on  high  its  head,  on  the  height  of  Hronesnaes; 

So  that  soon  sea-sailing  men,   in  succeeding  days. 

Call  it  Beowulf s  Barrow;  when  their  barks  a-foam. 

From  afar  they  make  their  way  through  the  mists  of  Ocean. 

Thus  died  he, 

Of  all  men  the  mildest,  and  to  men  the  kindest. 
To  his  people  gentlest,  and  of  praise  the  keenest. 

How  many  things  of  interest  might  be  told  of  this 
ancient  narrative!    Although  greatly  changed  and  cut 

14 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

by  the  Christian  priests  who  wrote  it  down  in  the  tenth 
century,  it  still  retains  its  wild,  heathen  tone  and  much 
of  the  history  and  tradition  of  our  distant  forefathers. 
A  warrior  named  Beowulf  really  lived,  was  a  Geat,  and 
the  son  of  a  chief,  Hygelac,  who,  according  to  Gregory 
of  Tours,  raided  the  Frisian  shore  about  520.  The 
Franks  pursued  and  killed  him,  and  Beowulf  avenged 
his  death.  That  he  reigned  fifty  years  after  his  father 
is  perhaps  true.  Mere  human  heroism,  however,  did 
not  suffice  for  his  glorification ;  the  deeds  of  the  ancient 
god  of  sun  and  summer,  Beowa,  were  transferred  to 
him,  and  before  the  story  had  been  brought  to  England 
by  the  Angles  he  was  a  creature  half  divine.  It  was 
in  England  about  650  that  the  epic  reached  its  full 
proportions ;  for  there  and  then  the  stories  of  Scyld  and 
of  Grendel's  mother  were  added,  and  doubtless  many 
other  hints  or  portions  of  ancient  tales  inserted.  In 
fact,  there  are  several  fragments  of  legends  in  Beowulf 
much  older  than  the  epic  itself.  There  is,  for  instance, 
the  hoary  fragment  about  the  Battle  of  Finnsburg. 
Finn,  to  bring  peace,  marries  Hildeburh,  daughter  of 
Hoc,  the  Dane.  Her  kinsmen,  Hnaef  and  Hengist,  with 
sixty  men,  come  on  a  visit;  but  Finn,  with  old  anger 
rankling  in  him,  sets  fire  to  the  guest-hall.  A  bit  of 
another  manuscript,  still  preserved,  takes  up  the  story 
at  this  point.     Hnaef  raises  the  alarm : 

This  no  eastward  dawning  is,  nor  is  here  a  dragon  flying, 

Nor  of  this  high  haU  are  the  horns  a-burning; 

But  the  foe  is  rushing  here!     Now  the  ravens  sing; 

Growling  is  the  gray  wolf;  grim  the  war- wood  rattles; 

Shield  to  shaft  is  answering!     .     .     . 

Now  awaken,  rouse  ye,  men  of  war  of  mine, 

15 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Ready  have  your  hands,  think  on  hero  deeds. 
In  the  front  be  fighting,  be  of  fiery  mood. 

The  fight  continues  five  days;  Hnaef  is  slain,  and 
many  of  his  warriors.  Here  the  portion  quoted  in  Beo- 
wulf begins.  Nearly  all  of  Finn's  comrades,  including 
his  young  son,  have  been  killed,  and  a  temporary  peace 
is  made.  But  later  Finn  secretly  causes  the  death  of 
Hengist,  and  in  revenge  the  dead  man's  friends  re- 
turn, kill  Finn,  and  take  Hildeburh  back  to  her  people. 

It  is  such  fiction  as  this  that  delighted  the  Saxon 
heart,  and  the  composers  of  Beownilf,  knowing  this, 
hinted  at  or  even  quoted  as  many  of  the  ancient  legends 
as  they  were  familiar  with.  The  story  of  Widsith  was 
brought  to  mind ;  the  myth  of  Scyld  was  mentioned ;  the 
legend  of  a  swimming  match  between  Beowulf  and 
Brecca  was  a  familiar  representation  of  the  struggle 
between  summer  and  winter;  the  story  of  Sigmund's 
battle  with  the  dragon,  out  of  which  grew  the  Siegfried 
saga,  warmed  the  hearts  of  the  rough  listeners;  the 
prince 's-treasure  tradition  was  known  to  the  people 
three  centuries  before  the  story  of  Beowulf  himself. 

Thus  traditions  and  legends,  added  from  time  to 
time,  made  the  story  dearer  to  those  in  the  ale-hall,  be- 
cause it  retold  those  deeds  which  the  rough. warriors  had 
heard,  as  children,  from  the  lips  of  aged  sires. 

But  what  of  the  construction,  the  plot,  the  characters 
of  this  ancient  piece  of  fiction?  The  story  is  loosely 
connected,  it  must  be  admitted;  the  three  episodes  did 
not  have  to  occur  in  this  way  or  this  order  in  the  life 
of  the  hero.  There  is  entirely  too  much  digression  to 
suit  modern  readers;  the  characters  undoubtedly  talk 

16 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

too  much;  from  the  story-teller's  standpoint,  but  not 
from  the  historian's,  too  many  details  are  given.  But 
these  faults  admitted,  it  is  certain  that  each  episode 
has  a  vigor,  a  rapidity  of  movement,  a  savage  vehemence 
truly  dramatic.  The  actions  stand  out  clearly;  we  see 
without  effort  the  monster  and  Beowulf  clashing  in  the 
swaying  hall;  we  hear  the  crunching  of  bones;  we  feel 
the  tearing  of  sinews;  we  touch,  with  the  hero,  the 
horrible  creatures  in  the  dark  lake ;  and  the  fire-breath- 
ing dragon  becomes  a  reality.  These  phases  are  uncon- 
scious victories  in  art.  Then,  too,  the  story  is  true  to 
its  nationality.  The  boastfulness  and  abruptness  of 
speech,  the  decisiveness  in  action,  the  dignity  of  bear- 
ing, the  vast  physical  vigor,  the  deep  belief  in  fate, 
the  disregard  for  life,  the  ever-present  sense  of  gloom 
in  spite  of  the  feasting  and  song — these  instantly  im- 
press us  as  not  affected,  but  entirely  natural.  The 
story  is  defective,  perhaps,  in  that  only  one  character 
is  given  opportunity  to  shine — ^no  one  is  allowed  to 
compare  with  Beowulf — but,  then,  even  in  this  primitive 
narrative  the  hero  shows  one  trait  almost  demanded 
in  the  figures  of  the  modern  novel ;  that  is,  soul  develop- 
ment. Beowulf  in  his  old  age  is  even  more  admirable 
than  Beowulf  in  his  youth.  He  is  gentler ;  he  is  graver ; 
he  boasts  less;  he  depends  more  upon  actual  deeds;  he 
lives  more  for  others  than  for  himself;  experience  has 
made  him  wise  and  has  sweetened  his  soul.  All  in  all 
we  have  here  a  remarkable  piece  of  fiction  to  come 
from  a  primitive,  totally  unread  race,  and  we  should 
not  wonder  that  the  deep  human  craving  for  narrative 
so  long  found  joy  in  it  and  that  the  child  of  to-day,  like 
2  17 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

the   early   Saxon,   listens   with  intense   interest   to   its 
vivid  account. 

deor's  complaint 

I  have  said  that  numerous  old  poems  are  mentioned 
in  Beowulf.  Among  them  is  a  short  story  of  an  un- 
fortunate harper — a  few  mournful  lines  entitled  The 
Complaint  of  Deor.  Long  had  Deor  been  the  darling 
of  the  feast-hall;  for  none  had  ever  equaled  him  in 
song.  Gifts  were  his,  lands  and  honors.  Then  came  a 
rival,  Heorrenda,  who  by  his  skill  in  music  won  away 
the  chief's  admiration  and  love,  and  Deor  went  forth, 
a  wanderer  and  a  beggar.  He  tells  of  the  troubles  of 
other  men — of  Weland,  who  was  exiled  and  had  for 
companions  ** sorrow  and  longing,  the  winter's  cold 
sting,  woe  upon  woe'';  of  Theodoric,  a  prisoner  for 
thirty  years ;  of  the  Goths,  who  had  been  persecuted  by 
tyrants.     Then  he  speaks  of  himself: 

Now  of  myself  this  will  I  say: 
Erewhile  I  was  Scop  of  the  Heodenings, 
Dear  to  my  Lord.    Deor  my  name  was. 
A  many  winters  I  knew  good  service; 
Gracious  was  my  lord.     But  now  Heorrenda, 
By  craft  of  his  singing,  succeeds  to  the  land-right 
That  Guardian  of  Men  erst  gave  unto  me. 
That  was  o'er-passedj  this  may  pass  also. 

About  this  venerable  lay  we  can  know  little.  It  may 
have  been  sung  to  draw  greater  gifts  from  some  sym- 
pathetic chief;  it  may  have  been  created  by  some  ar- 
tistic minstrel  simply  to  answer  the  Anglo-Saxon  affec- 
tion for  a  pathetic  theme;  whatever  its  cause,  it  is  a 
conscious  production  and  doubtless  almost  entirely  flc- 

18 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

titious.  Says  Stopford  Brooke  concerning  it:  ''Its 
form  is  remarkable.  It  has  a  refrain,  and  there  is  no 
other  early  English  instance  of  this  known  to  us.  It 
is  written  in  strophes,  and  one  motive,  constant  through- 
out, is  expressed  in  the  refrain.  This  dominant  cry 
of  passion  makes  the  poem  a  true  lyric,  .  .  .  the 
Father  of  all  English  lyrics.  .  .  .  The  comfort  is 
stern,  like  that  the  Northmen  take."  It  is  but  another 
proof  of  the  willingness  of  our  forefathers  to  listen  to 
any  story,  whether  long  or  short,  exultant  or  sorrowful, 
— just  so  it  told  the  story  of  physical,  mental,  or  moral 
struggle. 

THE   WANDERER 

Of  just  such  a  reminiscent  character  is  another  prob- 
ably pre-Christian  fiction.  The  Wanderer.  Here  the 
ancient  harpist  speaks  again,  unlocks  his  hoard  of  mem- 
ories, tells  of  the  friends  now  long  dead,  of  the  glee  in 
the  old-time  mead-hall,  and  of  the  loneliness  and  care 
that  are  his  to-day : 

So  it  happened  that  I — oft-unhappy  me! 
Far  from  friendly  kinsmen,  forced  away  from  home — 
Had  to  seal  securely  all  my  secret  soul, 
After  that  my  Gold-friend  in  the  gone-by  years 
Darkness  of  the  earth  bedecked.     Dreary-hearted,  from  that  time. 
Went  I,  winter- wretched,  o'er  the  woven  waves  of  the  sea. 
Searching,   sorrow-smitten,   for   some  Treasure-spender's  hall, 
Where,  or  far  or  near,  I  might  find  a  man 
Who,  amidst  the  mead-halls,  might  acquainted  be  with  love, 
Or  to  me,  the  friendless,  fain  would  comfort  give, 
Pleasure  me  with  pleasures. 

He  who  proves  it,  knows 
What  a  cruel  comrade  careful  sorrow  is  to  him. 
Who  in  life  but  little  store  of  loved  companions  has! 

19 


ENGLISH  MOTION 

His  the  track  of  exile  is,  not  the  twisted  gold. 
His  the  frozen  bosom,  not  the  earth's  fertility! 

Then  the  minstrel  tells  of  the  loud  joy  in  the  halls 
of  his  youth,  how  now  he  drifts  over  the  dark  ocean, 
with  ''the  falling  sleet  and  snow  sifted  through  with 
hail,''  and  how  he  is  lost  in  wonder  at  the  fleetingness 
of  all  things  here  on  earth. 

Whither  went  the  horse,  whither  went  the  man?     Whither  went 

the  Treasure-giver? 
What   befell   the  seats   of   feasting?     Whither   fled  the  joys  in 

haU? 
Alas!  the  beaker  bright!     Alas!  the  byrnied  warriors! 
Alas!  the  people's  pride!     Oh,  how  perished  is  that  time! 
Veiled  beneath  night's  helm  it  is,  as  if  it  ne'er  had  been! 

Then  come  the  closing  lines  speaking  the  same  con- 
clusion as  that  later  singer  who  had  lived  and  suffered, 
Shakespeare,  when  he  exclaimed  as  the  epitome  of  his 
life's  observations — 

We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on 
And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

Says  the  wanderer,  as  he  sums  up  the  experience  of 
an  existence  knowing  both  joy  and  sorrow : 

All  is  trouble,  all  this  realm  of  earth! 

Doom  of  weirds  is  changing  all  the  world  below  the  skies; 

Here  our  fee  is  fleeting,  here  the  friend  is  fleeting. 

Fleeting  here  is  man,  fleeting  is  the  woman. 

All  the  earth's  foundation  is  an  idle  thing  become. 

Again  we  find  the  melancholy  strain  so  long  charac- 
teristic of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  Again,  too,  we  hear 
the  ''travel  story,"  the  type  that  is  popular  to  this  day. 
The  same  virtues  are  set  forth,  though  in  briefer  form, 

20 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

as  are  emphasized  in  Beowulf,  and  the  same  impelling 
belief  in  Fate,  in  the  inexorable  will  of  Wyrd,  or  the 
will  of  God.  Nowhere  yet  has  love  of  woman  entered 
as  a  theme  for  story;  it  is  a  day  of  man-fiction,  when 
combat  with  wild  nature  and  unswerving  predestination 
is  the  subject  that  moves  the  spirit. 

THE  SEAFARER 

The  Seafarer,  another  story  found  in  the  Exeter  Booh 
already  mentioned,  is  probably  of  later  origin  than 
Widsith,  the  Complaint  of  Deor,  and  similar  tales  thus 
far  mentioned.  By  this  time,  perhaps  after  Christianity 
had  begun  its  work  in  England,  the  Anglo-Saxons  had 
settled  down  on  land,  had  become  true  ''land  lubbers," 
often  fearful  of  the  sea  and  its  wild  storms.  Perhaps, 
too,  some  touch  of  Christianity  had  come  to  the  particu- 
lar author  of  this  fiction,  softening  his  nature  and  making 
him  a  lover  more  of  quiet  meditation  than  of  physical 
activities.  The  narrative  is  practically  a  dialogue  be- 
tween an  old  man  and  a  youth — one  of  the  first  conver- 
sational stories,  if  not  the  first,  in  Germanic  languages. 
**I  can  tell,"  exclaims  the  old  fellow. 

How  oft  through  long  seasons  I  suffered  and  strove, 
Abiding  within  my  breast  bitterest  care; 
How  I  sailed  among  sorrows  in  many  a  sea; 
The  wild  rise  of  the  waves,  the  close  watch  of  the  night 
At  the  dark  prow  in  danger  of  dashing  on  rock. 
Folded  in  by  the  frost,  my  feet  bound  by  the  cold 
In  chill  bands,  in  the  breast  the  heart  burning  with  care. 
The  soul  of  the  sea-weary  hunger  assailed. 
Knows  not  he  who  finds  happiest  hours  upon  earth 
How  I  lived  through  long  winter  in  labor  and  care. 
On  the  icy-cold  ocean,  an  exile  from  joy, 
Cut  off  from  dear  kindred,  encompassed  with  ice. 
21 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Hail  flew  in  hard  showers,  and  nothing  I  heard 
But  the  wrath  of  the  waters,  the  icy-cold  way. 

But  the  young  man's  longing  is  not  changed  by  the 
(dreary  description.     ^'Ah/'  he  cries: 

A  passion  of  the  mind  every  moment  pricks  me  on 
All  my  life  to  set  a-faring;  so  that  far  from  hence 
I  may  seek  the  shore  of  the  strange  outlanders. 

*'Tes,"  replies  the  old  sailor,  **it  is  ever  so  with 
youth.''  Not  content  with  well  enough,  not  satisfied 
with  the  work  that  Fate  has  set  clearly  before  him,  not 
joying  in  domestic  peace,  he  feels  no  delight 

In  anything  whatever  save  the  tossing  o'er  the  waves! 
0  for  ever  he  has  longing  who  is  urged  toward  the  sea. 

Then  the  young  man,  protesting,  points  toward  the 
spring  scene  about  him,  ^Hhe  trees  reblooming,"  the 
** winsome,  wide  plains,"  the  *'gay  world/'  and  declares 
that 

All  doth  only  challenge  the  impassioned  heart 

Of  his  courage  to  the  voyage,  whosoever  thus  bethinks  him 

O'er  the  billows  far  away  to  go. 

Suddenly  the  cuckoo  calls  from  a  neighboring  wood, 
and  the  old  man,  as  a  final  warning,  declares  that  it  is 
singing  the  sorrow  it  knows, — the  sorrow  of 

What  the  wanderer  endures 
Who  his  paths  of  banishment  widest  places  on  the  sea. 

But  the  boy  will  have  none  of  it;  the  call  of  the  sea 
is  in  his  ears;  he  must  away.     *' Behold!"  he  cries, 

My  thought  hovers  now  above  my  heart; 
Over  the  surging  flood  of  sea  now  my  spirit  flies, 
22 


EARLIEST  ATTEMPTS  IN  ENGLISH  FICTION 

O'er  the  homeland  of  the  whale — hovers  then  afar 
O'er  the  foldings  of  the  earth! 

It  is  the  old,  old  story — the  young  Englishman's  mad- 
ness for  the  sea,  the  wanderlust  of  youth,  the  longing  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  to  go  forth,  see,  and  conquer.  Chris- 
tianity may  have  brought  in  the  touches  of  Nature- 
love  and  the  tinge  of  gentler  sentiment ;  but  the  ancient 
savage  spirit  is  still  there — the  fighting,  daring  spirit 
that  made  a  Nelson  and  a  Wellington. 

These,  then,  are  examples  of  our  pagan  forefathers' 
first  rough  attempts  to  tell  a  tale.  Of  love  of  woman 
— the  main  subject  in  modern  fiction — there  is  scarcely 
a  mention;  of  deeds  of  gentleness  little  is  said;  the 
battle-din,  the  rush  of  ocean  waves,  the  dire  struggle 
with  Nature,  the  gift-givers  in  the  banquet-hall,  the 
loneliness  of  old  age,  the  dreams  of  a  brave  past — these 
are  the  themes  that  inspired  the  minstrel,  as  in  the  cool 
of  the  morning  he  paced  back  and  forward  along  the 
village  green,  composing  the  song  for  the  night,  and 
these  the  themes  that  at  the  evening  feast  brought  the 
shouting  warriors  to  their  feet,  or,  mayhap,  caused  their 
shaggy  heads  to  bow  in  sympathetic  anguish.  It  was 
a  splendid  beginning — this  poetry-fiction  of  strong  man- 
hood and  physically  brave  ideals — a  kind  of  literature 
entirely  different  from  the  stories  of  sexual  longing 
and  love  intrigues  so  frequently  discovered  in  the  early 
lore  of  the  more  southern  nations.  We  should  indeed 
be  thankful  that  our  ancestors  loved  to  hear  in  their 
songs,  of  the  soul 

Who  would  be  raised  among  his  friends  to  fame. 
And  do  brave  deeds  till  light  and  life  are  gone. 

23 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Earliest  Fiction  op  Christian  England 

In  the  previous  study  of  the  beginning  of  English 
Fiction  I  endeavored  to  make  plain  the  longing  of  our 
heathen  ancestors  for  stories  and  legends,  and  I  en- 
deavored also  to  show  the  character  of  fiction  they  de- 
manded. We  found  that  the  principal  figure  had  to  be 
a  physical  hero,  a  man  mighty  in  strength,  powerful 
as  a  leader,  clean  of  life,  fearless,  decisive,  liberal,  as- 
piring to  fame.  Gentleness  was  not  an  essential  trait, 
though  sometimes  attributed  to  the  character.  Battle 
was  the  theme,  and  war  was  his  occupation.  The  forest, 
the  waters,  and  the  things  of  Nature  in  general  were 
enemies,  elements  to  be  feared,  hated,  and  vanquished. 
Virility  and  not  love  was  the  motive  or  theme  of  all 
narrative. 

christian  changes 

Now,  with  the  coming  of  Christian  missionaries  in 
597,  certain  aspects  of  old  English  fiction  began  to  un- 
dergo a  decided  change.  Latin  literature  and  the  Bible, 
with  their  gentler  touches,  affected  the  national  char- 
acter; teachers  from  among  the  Irish,  who  had  before 
this  become  converts  to  Christianity,  entered  with  their 
Celtic  sentiment  and  lyrical  love  of  Nature;  and  the 
Anglo-Saxon,  without  at  once  losing  his  native  sturdi- 

24 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

ness,  stubbornness,  and  bravery,  acquired  in  addition 
a  susceptibility  to  the  lovable  things  of  field  and  forest, 
and  a  meditativeness,  a  considerateness,  and  a  sweet- 
ness of  spirit  not  known  to  his  pagan  ancestors.  Strange 
to  say,  his  native  tinge  of  fatalism,  or  pessimism,  did  not 
disappear  under  the  new  religion,  but,  instead,  devel- 
oped at  times  among  the  writers  into  almost  a  melan- 
cholia. Wyrd,  the  former  all-conquering  Fate,  which 
had  made  them  so  reckless  in  battle,  now  became  the 
unchanging  Will  of  God;  and  fatalism  of  the  most 
flagrant  character  tinged  their  songs  and  stories.  But 
the  gentleness,  the  devout  enthusiasm  for  noble  and 
bold  things,  the  love  for  all  God's  creatures,  the  desire 
for  legends  of  divine  or  mortal  affection  and  sacrifice — 
these  phases  readily  mark  a  change  of  attitude  among 
the  writers  of  early  Christian  England. 

C..EDMON 

The  tradition  concerning  the  first  Christian  poet  and 
story-teller  of  the  nation  is  one  so  calm,  so  lovely,  and 
so  tender  that  it  might  never  have  appealed  to  the  rough 
chiefs  of  the  Thor  and  "Woden  era.  It  is  the  story  of 
Caedmon  (630?-680?),  the  earliest  known  British  poet. 
Bede,  the  first  prominent  prose-writer  of  the  race,  tells 
the  legend  in  his  famous  Ecclesiastical  History  of  Eng- 
land, written  before  735.  ** Caedmon,''  he  says,  **was 
a  brother  in  the  monastery,  especially  distinguished 
by  divine  grace,  for  he  used  to  make  songs  apt  to  re- 
ligion and  piety;  so  that,  whatever  he  learnt  through 
the  interpreters  of  Holy  Writ,  this  he,  after  a  little 
while,  composed  in  poetical  words,  and,  with  the  ut- 
most sweetness  and  feeling,  would  produce  in  his  own 

25 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

English  tongue.  ...  He  was  a  layman  until  of 
mature  age  and  had  never  learnt  any  songs.  Some- 
times, therefore,  at  a  feast,  when  for  the  sake  of  enter- 
tainment, all  would  sing  in  their  turn,  he,  seeing  the 
harp  coming  near  him,  rose  from  the  table  and  went 
home.  Once,  having  left  the  house  of  festivity,  he 
went  out  to  the  stable  of  the  beasts,  care  of  which  was 
entrusted  to  him  that  night,  and  there,  when  he  had 
fallen  asleep,  a  form  stood  by  him,  saluted  him,  and 
called  him  by  name.  'Caedmon,  sing  me  something.' 
'I  cannot  sing,'  said  he;  ^I  have  come  away  from  the 
feast  because  I  could  not  sing.'  Then  commanded  the 
other,  'But  you  shall  sing  to  me.'  'What  shall  I  sing?' 
said  Caedmon,  and  the  being  answered,  'Sing  me  the 
origin  of  all  things.'  When  he  received  this  answer 
then  he  began  to  sing  immediately,  in  praise  of  God, 
the  Creator,  the  verses  which  he  had  never  heard,  the 
order  of  which  is  thus : 

'Now  must  we  praise  the  Guardian  of  heaven's  kingdom, 
The   Creator's   might  and   His    mind's   thought; 
Glorious  Father  of  men!     How  of  every  wonder  he. 
Lord  eternal,  formed  the  beginning. 

He  first  formed  for  the  children  of  earth 
The  heaven  as  a  roof — holy  Creator! — 
Then  the  middle-earth,  this  Ward  of  mankind, 
The  Lord  eternal,  and  then  let  arise 
The  world  for  men — the  Almighty  God! 

Besides  composing  the  hymn  of  creation  quoted 
above,  Caedmon  undoubtedly  paraphrased  portions  of 
Genesis,  Exodus,  and  Daniel,  and  several  parts  of  the 
New  Testament,  especially  those  dealing  with  the  tempta- 
tion, crucifixion,  ascension,  and  judgment  of  Christ.    The 

26 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

parchment  containing  these  poetical  stories  attributed  to 
him,  and  known  as  the  Junian  manuscript  because  once 
in  the  possession  of  Junius  (Francis  du  Jon),  a  Ley  den 
scholar  of  the  seventeeth  century,  was  written  in  the 
tenth  century  and  shows  at  least  two  styles  of  author- 
ship— styles  so  different  that  in  even  the  first  poem 
itself.  Genesis,  scholars  find  the  work  of  two  authors 
and  therefore  divide  the  story  into  Genesis  A  and  Gene- 
sis B.  The  first,  and  perhaps  original,  part  extends 
to  line  234  and  then  is  interrupted  by  Genesis  B  until 
line  852. 

Both  versions  take  up  the  old  legend  of  the  Fall  of 
Man,  and  in  the  first  portions  the  unlearned  Saxon 
poet  reaches  at  times  a  sublimity  almost  excelling  that 
of  Milton's  mighty  epic  upon  the  same  subject.  The 
proud  angels  in  Heaven,  so  the  tale  begins,  strove  with 
God  for  possession  of  the  universe;  but  the  Almighty, 
** stern  and  grim,''  seized  them  and  ** crushed  them  in 
his  grasp."  God,  however,  was  in  anguish  because  of 
the  vacant  places  in  His  Paradise  and  when  He  looked 
forth  into  the  Vast  He  found  but  emptiness. 

Nor  was  here  as  yet,  save  a  hollow  shadow. 

Anything  created;  but  the  wide  alyss. 

Deep  and  dim,  outspread;  all  divided  from  the  Lord, 

Idle  and  unuseful.     With  His  eyes  upon  it 

Gazed  the  mighty-minded  King,  and  He  marked  the  place 

Lie  delightless — (looked  and)   saw  the  cloud 

Brooding  black  in  Ever-night,  swart  beneath  the  heavens. 

Wan  and  wasteful  all,  till  the  world  became. 

Then  the  ever-living  Lord  at  the  first  created — 

He  the  Helm  of  every  wight — Heaven  and  the  Earth; 

Reared  aloft  the  Firmament,  and  this  roomful  land 

Stablished  steadfast  there. 

27 


English  fiction 

Then  the  story  tells  of  the  creation  of  man,  of  God's 
joy  over  His  handiwork,  and  of  the  beautiful  home 
where  the  first  couple  dwelt. 

Fair  washed 
The  genial  land  the  running  water. 
The  well-brook:  no  clouds  as  yet 
Over  the  ample  ground  bore  rains 
Lowering  with  wind;  yet  with  fruits  stood 
Earth  adorn'd.     Held  their  outward  course 
River-streams,  four  noble  ones. 
From  the  new  Paradise. 

As  Stopford  Brooke  points  out,  there  are  numerous 
deserts  of  dull  paraphrase  in  these  works;  but  in  those 
scenes  that  struck  the  sympathetic  chord  in  the  sea- 
loving,  fight-loving  Englishman,  the  poet's  lyre  becomes 
inspired  and  the  lines  sweep  on  with  a  rush  and  a  tor- 
rent of  picturesque  phrases.  Note,  for  instance,  the  fall 
of  Satan: 

One  He  had  made  so  powerful. 
So  mighty  in  his  mind's  thought,  he  let  him  sway  over  so  much 
Highest  after  himself  in  heaven's  kingdom.     He  had  made  him 

so  fair. 
So  beauteous  was  his  form  in  heaven,  that  came  to  him  from 

the  Lord  of  hosts. 
He  was  like  to  the  bright  stars.     It  was  his  to  work  the  praise 

of  the  Lord; 
It  was  his  to  hold  dear  his  joys  in  heaven  and  to  thank  his  Lord 
For  the  reward  that  He  had  bestow'd  on  him  in  that  light;  then 

had  He  let  him  long  possess  it; 
But  he  turned  it  for  himself  to  a  worse  thing,  began  to  raise 

war  upon  Him, 
Against  the  highest  Ruler  of  heaven,  who  sitteth  in  the  holy  seat. 

The  fiend,  with  all  his  comrades,  fell  then  from  heaven  above. 
Through  as  long  as  three  nights  and  days, 

28 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

The  angels  from,  heaven  into  hell,  and  them  all  the  Lord 
Transformed  to  devils,  because  they  His  deed  and  word 
Would  not  revere.     .    .    . 

•  t»l  fn  [•]  M 

Then  spake  the  haughty  king 

Who  of  angels  erst  was  brightest. 

Fairest  in  heaven:     .     .     . 

"This  narrow  place  is  most  unlike 

That  other  that  we  ere  knew. 

High  in  heaven's  kingdom,  which  my  master  bestow'd  on  me. 

.     .     .     Oh,  had  I  power  of  my  hands 

And  might  one  season  be  without, 

Be  one  winter's  space,  then  with  this  host  I— 

But  around  me  lie  iron  bonds, 

Presseth  this  cord  of  chain:     I  am  powerless! 

Thus  the  story  continues,  with  God  and  Satan  acting 
and  speaking  like  early  Saxon  chiefs  and  the  main 
events  pictured  with  English  environments.  So  it  is 
with  the  second  of  the  Casdmonian  paraphrases;  here, 
however,  the  story-teller,  in  his  efforts  to  make  the  tale 
clear  and  vivid  to  Anglo-Saxon  minds,  takes  great  liber- 
ties with  the  Biblical  text,  and  sweeps  the  narrative 
along  with  an  energy  that  would  quite  delight  the  heart 
of  an  editor  of  a  modern  fiction  magazine.  See  the 
drowning  of  Pharaoh  and  his  army: 

The  folk  was  affrighted,  the  flood-dread  seized  on 

Their  sad  souls;  ocean  wailed  with  death. 

The  mountain  heights  were  with  blood  bestreamed, 

The  sea  foamed  gorCj  crying  was  in  the  waves. 

The  water  full  of  weapons,  a  death  mist  rose; 

The  Egyptians  were  turned  back; 

Trembling  they  fled,  they  felt  fear; 

That  host  would  gladly  find  their  homes; 

Their  vaunt  grew  sadder;  against  them,  as  a  cloud,  rose 

The  fell  rolling  of  the  waves.    .    .    . 

29 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

.     .     .     Their  might  was  merged; 

The  streams  stood,  the  storm  rose 

High  in  heaven;  the  loudest  army-cry 

The  hostile  uttered;  the  air  above  was  thickened 

With  dying  voices;  blood  pervaded  the  flood. 

The  shield-walls  were  riven,  shook  the  firmament 

That  greatest  of  sea-deaths;  the  proud  died. 

It  is  this  power  of  visualizing  that  marks  the  great 
story-teller.  Caedmon  saw  clearly,  felt  keenly,  and 
joyed  and  suffered  with  his  heroes,  and  the  result  is  a 
vividness  admirable  even  in  this  day  of  studied,  ar- 
tistic phrasing.  This  same  quality  is  evident  in  the 
other  poetry-fiction  attributed  to  him — his  Harrowing  of 
Hell,  in  which  Christ,  like  the  young  Anglo-Saxon  hero, 
shatters  the  gates  of  Hell,  and  bursts  in  upon  Satan 
and  the  demons ;  his  stories  of  the  Resurrection,  the  As- 
cension, the  Day  of  Judgment,  in  which  the  Saviour,  more 
a  strong-willed  warrior  than  a  gentle  shepherd,  meets 
death  with  a  stoic  manner  born  of  fatalism,  and  enters 
into  His  own  like  a  Saxon  chief  returning  to  his  home 
after  a  victorious  raid.  As  Stop  ford  Brooke  says,  *4t 
is  by  His  being  the  great  warrior  that  he  becomes  the 
great  Saviour."^  Christianity  had  not  yet  suppressed 
the  demand  that  the  leader  in  any  narrative  must  be 
physically  strong  and  physically  brave.  To  quote  again 
from  Brooke:  *'In  the  Vision  of  the  Rood  (possibly 
of  Caedmonian  authorship),  the  young  Hero  girded  him- 
self for  the  battle.  He  was  almighty  God,  strong  and 
high-hearted,  and  he  stepped  upon  the  lofty  gallows, 
brave  of  soul  in  the  sight  of  many,  for  he  would  save 

"i^  English  Literature  from  the  Beginning  to  the  Norma/n  Con- 
quest,  p.  101. 

30 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

mankind.  .  .  .  Sore  weary  he  was  when  the  mickle 
strife  was  done,  and  the  men  laid  him  low,  him  the 
Lord  of  victory,  in  his  grave,  and  the  folk  sang  a  lay 
of  sorrow  over  him — as  his  comrades  did  for  Beowulf. 
It  is  the  death  and  burial  of  an  English  hero.*'^  The 
story-teller,  Caedmon,  born  a  heathen  and  dying  a 
Christian,  bridges  the  slight  division  between  the 
heathen  and  the  Christian  fiction.  He  used  the  new 
material,  but  retained  the  old  spirit;  he  sang  of  God 
and  a  nobler  religion,  but  he  made  them  both  as  Eng- 
lish as  he  dared.  Here  we  find  the  activity  of  a  militant 
Christian,  and  the  stories,  rarely  meditative,  are  ex- 
tremely objective,  telling  only  the  hero 's  adventures  and 
seldom  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  the  author. 

From  the  story-telling  view-point,  there  is  doubtless, 
as  in  the  heathen  Anglo-Saxon  works,  too  much  digres- 
sion; the  narrator  suffers  from  a  surplus  of  imagina-^ 
tion.  But  now,  with  the  Biblical  model  before  him, 
this  Christian  minstrel  tells  his  tales  with  more  unity, 
more  coherence,  more  closely  fitted  and  plausible  se- 
quence than  did  his  predecessors.  Fiction  is  advancing ; 
the  narrator  is  fully  conscious  of  the  climax  of  his  plot ; 
he  converges  his  energies  more  directly  upon  it,  and  his 
vigorous  characters  and  vigorous  descriptions  sweep  con- 
fidently toward  the  final  crisis.  Gentler  scenes  there  are, 
brief  pauses  for  word-pictures  too  beautiful  for  earlier 
appreciation,  rushing,  lyrical  verses  of  praise  for  this 
new  God  and  His  wonderful  Saviour,  touches  of  ad- 
miration for  the  sterner  characteristics  of  womanhood; 
these  are  indeed  new  elements;   but  seldom   does  the 

2  English  Literature  from  the  Begin/ning  to  the  Norman  Con- 
quest, p.  101. 

31 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

old  savage  love  of  wild  vigor  disappear  for  even  a  mo- 
ment. The  fiction-writer  of  those  earlier  Christian  days 
in  England  had  but  changed  the  name  of  his  ideal  and 
not  the  nature ;  Beowulf  is  indeed  silent,  but  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  Christ  speaks  in  the  same  tone. 

CYNEWULF 

After  the  days  of  Caedmon,  between  750  and  825, 
there  lived  a  story-teller,  who,  in  the  art  of  making 
fiction  seem  real,  surpassed  all  his  predecessors.  That 
man  wa^  Cynewulf .  Strange  ss  it  may  seem,  for  many 
centuries  we  did  not  know  even  the  name  of  this  creator 
of  vivid  narrative,  although  scholars  felt  that  a  cer- 
tain group  of  poems  of  those  old  days  must  have  come 
from  one  brain  and  one  hand.  In  1840  Jacob  Grimm 
and  J.  M.  Kemble,  working  absolutely  independently, 
discovered  in  the  runic  letters  of  a  poem,  Elene  (found 
in  a  manuscript  of  the  Vercelli  monastery,  Italy),  and 
in  two  poems  of  the  Exeter  Book  the  long-lost  name 
of  the  singer.  Little  enough  we  know  of  his  life.  In 
the  last  lines  of  Elene  he  gives  some  brief  reflections  on 
his  own  days.  He  had  been  a  minstrel,  he  declares, 
had  taken  prizes  of  gold,  and  then  had  known  need  and 
secret  sorrow.  ^' Yet  he  had  had  his  joy ;  the  radiance  of 
youth  had  long  ago  been  his."  Stopford  Brooke  finds  in 
the  eighty-ninth  Riddle  of  the  poet  another  autobio- 
graphical hint;  for  there  Cynewulf  says:  ''Amid  the 
folk  I  am  famous.  Loud  applause  rings  through  the 
hall  when  I  sing  to  the  rovers  and  the  warriors,  and 
I  win  glory  in  the  towns,  and  glittering  gold.  Men 
of  wit  love  to  meet  with  me,  for  I  unveil  to  them  wis- 

32 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

dom.  When  I  sing  all  men  are  silent.  The  dwellers 
on  earth  seek  after  me,  but  I  often  hide  from  them  my 
path. ' '  ^  Again,  he  speaks  of  his  sinful  youth,  of  his 
repentant  age,  and  of  his  watches  in  the  silence  of  the 
night.  It  would  seem,  then,  that  this  man  had  been  a 
heathen  of  Northumbria  in  his  young  manhood,  had  been 
converted  to  Christianity,  and  had  spent  his  mature 
years  in  some  monastery  composing  poetical  fictions  con- 
cerning the  deeds  of  his  Saviour  and  that  Saviour's 
saints.  Four  stories  are  almost  certainly  his;  for  they 
contain  his  name — Elene,  Juliana,  Crist,  and  the  Fates 
of  the  Apostles;  while  some  scholars  would  attribute  to 
him  the  narratives  Guthlac,  Phoenix,  Christ's  Descent 
into  Hell,  Andreas,  the  Dream  of  the  Rood,  and  others. 
Whoever  he  was,  he  was  a  genius  in  the  vivid  recount- 
ing of  legendary  lore,  and  whether  he  or  a  school  of 
his  disciples  wrote  the  numerous  poems  assigned  to  him, 
the  whole  movement  was  a  remarkable  outburst  of  im- 
aginative literature. 

It  would  be  impossible  within  the  limits  of  this  study 
of  English  fiction  to  discuss  each  and  every  one  of 
these  numerous  works.  Let  us  observe  but  a  few  in 
some  little  detail  and  thus  gain  an  idea  of  the  sort  of 
narrative  our  British  ancestors  enjoyed  Immediately 
after  Christianity  had  touched  their  souls.  Elene,  con- 
sidered by  most  critics  the  best  of  Cynewulf's  poems, 
takes  up  the  old  legend  of  Constantine's  mother.  Empress 
Helena,  who  after  her  conversion  went  forth  in  search 
of  the  true  cross.  The  tradition  is  as  old  almost  as 
Christianity  itself  and  is  found  in  the  Latin  Life  of  St, 

3  Brooke's  English  Literature  from  the  Beginning  to  the  Nor- 
mem  Conquest,  p.  161. 

3  33 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Quiriacus  (Cyriacus),  the  Bishop  of  Jerusalem,  who 
becomes  the  Judas  of  the  story.  The  tale  opens  with  a 
description  of  the  power  of  Constantine: 

Strong  grew  the  setheling's 
Might  'neath  the  heavens.     He  was  true  king. 
War-keeper  of  men.     God  him  strengthened 
With  honor  and  might  that  to  many  became  he 
Throughout  this  earth  to  men  a  joy. 
To  nations  a  vengeance,  when  weapons  he  raised 
Against  his  foes. 

But  at  length  mighty  foes  gather  about  him;  ''a  host 
is  gathered,  folk  of  the  Huns  and  fame-loving  Goths"; 
and  the  march  to  battle  begins.  Then  the  strife-loving 
Anglo-Saxon  blood  of  Cynewulf,  Christian  though  he 
is,  boils,  and,  like  Beowulf  of  old,  he  sings  the  joys  of 
war: 

A  war-song  howled 
The  wolf  in  the  wood,  war-secret  concealed  not; 
The  dew-feathered  eagle  uplifted   his   song 
On  the  trail  of  his  foes.     Hastened  quickly 
O'er  cities  of  giants  the  greatest  of  war  hosts 
In  bands  to  battle.     .     .     . 

Then  rattled  the  shield. 
The  war- wood  clanged:   the  king  with  host  marched. 
With  army  to  battle.     Aloft  sang  the  raven. 
Dark  and  corpse-greedy.     The  band  was  in  motion. 
The  horn-bearers  blew,  the  heralds  called. 
Steeds  stamped  the  earth. 

Then  in  the  night  a  dream  comes  to  Constantine — 
a  vision  of  the  cross  shining  brilliantly  in  the  sky,  and 
with  the  morrow  victory  comes  to  him.  The  story  re- 
lates his  conversion  and  his  baptism,  and  then  comes  the 
jnain  part  of  the  narration.     The  mother,  Helena,  in 

34 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

her  gratitude,  determines  to  find  the  true  cross,  sets 
out  on  her  journey,  and  at  length  arrives  at  Jerusalem. 
And  what  a  journey  that  was !  The  old  spirit  of  Wid- 
sith  and  Beowulf,  the  old  wild  love  for  the  tumultuous 
sea,  burn  anew ;  Cynewulf  is  once  more  for  the  moment  a 
pagan  Saxon.     See  the  bustle  of  departure : 

Then  the  stallions  of  the  flood 
Stood  alert  for  going,  on  the  ocean-strand, 
Hawsered  steeds  of  sea,  in  the  sound  at  anchor. 

•  •••«•••:• 

Over  the  sea-marges. 
One  troop  after  other,  hourly  urged  they  on. 
So  they  stored  up  there — with  the  sarks  of  battle. 
With   shields  and   spears,   with   mail-shirted  fighters. 
With  the  warriors  and  the  women — the  wave-riding  horses. 
Their  sea-steeds,  steep  of  stem. 

Blithe  the  sea-dogs  were. 
Courage  in  their  heart!     Glad  the  Queen  was  of  her  journey. 
When  at  last  to  hithe,  o'er  the  ocean-lake  fast-rooted. 
They  had  sailed  their  ships,  set  with  rings  on  prows. 
To  the  land  of  Greece.     Then  they  let  the  keels 
Stand  upon  the  sea-marge^  driven  on  the  sandy  shore. 
Ancient  houses  of  the  wave. 

Thus  the  ancient  tale  continues,  now  dull,  now  glow- 
ing, now  a  mere  paraphrase  of  the  Latin  original,  now 
a  living  fragment  of  lofty,  imaginative  poetry,  Helena 
arrives  at  Jerusalem ;  she  states  her  object  to  the  Jews ; 
Judas,  who  possesses  valuable  information  concerning 
the  cross,  is  delivered  up  to  the  empress,  and  is  im- 
prisoned until  willing  to  tell  these  secrets;  Judas  leads 
the  party  to  Calvary;  a  smoke  arises  showing  where  to 
dig;  and  three  crosses  are  unearthed.     Then  comes  the 

35 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

question  as  to  which  one  is  the  Saviour's  rood;  but 
Judas  finds  the  means  for  absolute  certainty. 

He  bade  them  set   (a)   soul-less  youth. 
Deprived   of  life,  the  corpse  on  the  earth. 
The  lifeless  one,  and  up  he  raised. 
Declarer  of  truth,  two  of  the  crosses, 
.     .     .     It  was  dead  as  before, 

Corpse  fast  on  its   bier;   the  limbs  were  cold. 
Clad  in  distress.     Then  was  the  third 
Holy  upraised.     The  body  awaited 
Until  over  it  the  setheling's  cross. 
His  rood,  was  upraised,  Heaven-king's  tree. 
True  token  of  victory.     Immediately  arose. 
Ready  in  spirit,  both  together 
Body  and  soul!     There  praise  was  uplifted 
Fair  'mid  the  people. 

The  joyful  word  is  sent  back  to  Constantine;  he  or- 
ders a  church  built  upon  the  spot;  Judas  is  baptized, 
ordained  Bishop  of  Jerusalem,  and  given  the  name  Cy- 
riacus;  and  the  nails  that  pierced  the  limbs  of  Jesus 
are  made  into  a  bit  for  Constantino's  war-horse.  Then 
the  narrative  closes  with  the  poet's  epilogue,  a  quiet, 
half-sad,  half-joyful  bit  of  reflective  verse. 

Thus  old  and  death-ready  in  this  frail  house 
Word-craft  I  wove  and  wonderfully  framed  it. 
Reflected  at  times  and  sifted  my  thought 
Closely  at  night.     I  knew  not  well 
This  truth  of  the  rood  ere  wider  knowledge 
Through  glorious  might  into  thought  of  my  mind 
Wisdom  revealed  to  me. 

For  so  primitive  an  age  the  plot  of  this  story  is  re- 
markably steady.  Uncertain,  straggling  portions  there 
are,  undeniably;  but  for  the  most  part  the  narration 

36 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

proceeds  unhesitatingly  toward  the  scene  on  Calvary. 
Descriptions  sometimes  impede  temporarily  its  course 
— descriptions  such  as  those  quoted  of  battle  and  sea- 
voyage  ;  but  they  are  not  detrimental ;  they  but  heighten 
the  vividness,  the  seeming  reality  of  it  all.  Then,  too, 
unlike  Beowulf,  more  than  one  prominent  figure  passes 
before  us :  Helena,  Constantine,  and  Judas  stand  forth 
as  important  actors,  and  their  words  and  their  deeds 
seem  essential  to  the  completeness  of  the  tale.  The 
legend  as  told  by  the  artistic  Cynewulf  begins  to  take 
on  some  of  the  * ^nevitableness "  of  a  modern  plot; 
events,  it  seems,  should  have  happened  in  just  such  a 
manner.  It  is  a  narrative  vigorous,  life-like,  at  times 
inspiring,  at  times  intensely  interesting — a  virile  Anglo- 
Saxon  story  in  a  new  and  hitherto  almost  untouched 
field. 

His  story,  Crist,  possesses  almost  equal  merit.  No 
hesitation  here,  no  haziness  of  plot,  no  vagueness  of 
character.  The  now  fully  Christianized  author  fre- 
quently rushes  along  with  his  narrative;  when  he  stops 
it  is  but  to  burst  forth  in  a  song  of  prayer  and  praise  to 
his  God: 

Come  now,  thou  Lord  of  Victory,  Creator  of  Mankind, 

Make  manifest  Thy  tenderness  in  mercy  to  us  here! 
Need  is  there  for  us  all  in  Thee  Thy  Mother's  kin  to  find, 

Though  to  Thy  Father's  mystery  we  cannot  yet  come  near. 
Christ,  Saviour,  by  Thy  coming  bless  this  earth  of  ours  with  love; 

The  golden  gates,  so  long  fast  barred,  do  Thou,  O  Heavenly 
King, 
Bid  now  unclose,  that  humbly  Thou,  descending  from  above, 

Seek  us  on  earth;   for  we  have  need  of  blessing  Thou  canst 
bring. 

37 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  descriptions  of  the  fiery  deluge  in  the  Last  Day, 
of  the  blazing  and  bloody  cross  reaching  far  into  the 
skies,  the  trumpet-blasts  of  the  four  angels — these  are 
but  a  few  of  the  vivid  touches  that  make  this  narration 
as  intense  and  real  as  many  of  our  modern  masterpieces 
of  short  story. 

The  book  opens  with  hymn-like  prayers  to  God  and 
praise  that  the  Christ-child  is  born.  The  mother  Mary 
appears,  and  then  follows  a  conversation  between  her 
and  some  citizens  of  Jerusalem.  Here,  then,  we  have 
dialogue — one  of  the  rare  instances  in  early  English 
fiction — dialogue,  too,  that  bears  some  resemblance  to 
that  form  of  literature  which  is  practically  all  conversa- 
tion— the  Drama.  In  the  conversation  later  on  between 
Joseph  and  Mary  we  have  a  selection  that  sounds  very 
much  like  a  fragment  from  a  play  almost  modern  in 
its  tone.  The  husband  accuses  the  wife  of  unfaithful- 
ness. 

Mary —       Alas!  Joseph  mine,  child  of  Jacob  old. 

Kinsman,  thou  of  David,  king  of  great  fame. 

In  our  fast-set  friendship  wilt  thou  fail  me  now? 

Let  my  love  be  lost? 

Joseph —    Lo,  now  I 

Deeply  am  distressed,  all  undone  of  honour. 
.     .     .     Oh,  my  sorrow!     Oh,  young  girl! 
Maid  Maria! 

Mary —  Why  bemoanest  thou? 

Criest  now,  care  weary?     Never  crime  in  thee 
Have  I  ever  found;  yet  thou  utterest  words 
As  if  thou  thyself  wert  all  thronged  with  sin! 

With  a  woman's  intuitive  shrewdness,  she  turns  the 
tables  on  him  and  makes  him  the  defendant  instead  of 

38 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

the  accuser.  Thus  the  story  proceeds,  telling  the  old 
familiar  narrative  of  the  Christ,  His  birth,  and  His 
early  life,  and  ever  and  anon  bursting  forth  in  choruses 
of  lofty  praise  and  thanksgiving. 

The  second  part  of  the  story  deals  with  the  ascen- 
sion of  Christ,  who  in  it  all  is  a  warrior  almost  violent 
in  His  every  act.  As  several  critics  have  pointed  out, 
doubtless  the  finest  scene  of  this  second  portion  is  that 
showing  the  saints,  whom  the  Saviour  has  released  in 
his  harrowing  of  Hell,  following  their  Master  to  Heaven. 
The  Heavenly  inhabitants  come  forth  to  greet  these  old 
fighters  for  the  faith,  and  the  mighty  leader  of  the 
angel  army  speaks  like  Beowulf  of  yore:  **See,  the 
Holy  Hero  has  bereaved  Hell,  taken  back  the  tribute. 
Lo,  He  returns  after  the  war-playing,  with  his  unnum- 
bered folk  set  loose  from  prison.  0  ye  gates,  unclose; 
the  King  has  come  to  His  city!  " 

Now  follows  soon  the  story  of  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
preceded,  however,  by  some  lines  that  in  their  cry  of 
remorse,  fear  of  the  last  accounting,  and  recognition 
of  God's  mercy,  possess  a  most  personal,  human  appeal: 

Mickle  is  our  need 
That  in  this  unfruitful  time,  ere  that  fearful  dread 
On  our  spirit's  fairness,  we  should  studiously  bethink  us! 
Now  most  like  it  is  as  if  we  on  lake  of  ocean, 
O'er  the  water  cold  in  our  keels  are  sailing, 
And  through  spacious  sea,  with  our  stallions  of  the  Sound 
Forward  drive  the  flood-wood.     Fearful  is  the  stream 
Of  immeasurable  surges  that  we  sail  on  here, 
Through  this  wavering  world,  through  these  windy  oceans. 
O'er  the  path  profound.     Perilous  our  state  of  life 
Ere  that  we  had  sailed  to  the  shore. 
O'er  the  rough  sea-ridges.     Then  there  reached  us  help, 

39 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

That  to  hithe  of  Healing  homeward  led  us  on, 

He,  the  Spirit- Son  of  God !     And  He  dealt  us  grace. 

So  that  we  should  be  aware,  from  the  vesseFs  deck. 

Where  our  stallions  of  the  sea  we  might  stay  with  ropes. 

Fast  a- riding  by  their  anchors — ancient  horses  of  the  wave! 

Is  it  not  a  picturesque  description  of  life's  voyage? 
Here  is  the  same  ancient  charm  of  the  sea,  here  the 
same  bold  metaphors  for  ship  and  ocean,  the  beat  of 
the  waves  against  the  bark,  the  foam  of  the  surges, 
and  with  it  all  the  deep  Anglo-Saxon  melancholy  strain, 
only  softened  and  made  more  patient  by  the  help  of  a 
divine  Pilot.  Truly,  Christianity  had  not  destroyed  the 
ancient  foundation  virtues,  but  simply  had  built  its 
nobler  structure  upon  them. 

The  third  part  of  this  piece  of  Anglo-Saxon  fiction 
takes  as  its  theme  the  Last  Reckoning.  Now  the  poet 
is  in  his  native  element;  Wyrd  is  once  more  victorious; 
God,  the  destructive  warrior,  has  let  free  His  wrath. 
Hear  and  see  that  final  hour: 

All  a-glow  the  Angels  blow  with  one  accord 
Loudly  thrilling  trumpets.     Trembles  Middle-garth; 
Earth  is  quaking  under  men!     Right  against  the  going 
Of  all  the  stars  they  sound  together,  strong  and  gloriously. 
Sounding  and  resounding  from  the  south  and  north; 
On  all  creation,  from  the  east  and  from  the  west; 
Bairns  of  doughty  men  from  the  dead  arousing. 
All  aghast  from  the  gray  mold;  all  the  kin  of  men. 
To  the  dooming  of  the  Lord. 

The  world  is  on  fire;  *^the  Fire-blast,  flaming  far, 
fierce  and  hungry  like  a  sword,  whelms  the  world 
withal";  the  mountains  melt;  the  oceans  boil;  death 
fastens  on  man;  the  world  shrivels  like  a  scroll.     All 

40 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

things  perish — all  save  one.  There  against  the  murky 
sky  stands  the  Cross,  calm,  unmoved,  with  its  base  rooted 
in  Mount  Zion  and  its  head  reaching  into  heaven. 
Without  the  sun,  it  shines  afar;  it  is  indeed  the  Rock 
of  Ages.  Thus  with  a  burst  of  true  Anglo-Saxon  word- 
picturing  the  story  of  the  Christ  sweeps  on  to  its  close. 
This  is  a  tale  that  would  have  brought  the  bold  feasters 
of  Widsith's  day  to  their  feet — one  that  would  have 
caused  them  to  brandish  their  swords  aloft  and  shout 
undying  allegiance  to  their  Chief,  the  Warrior  of  Gali- 
lee. They  might  not  have  appreciated  the  tender  pas- 
sages that  the  new  religion  had  given  the  legend ;  but  the 
plot  with  its  wild  activity,  the  dangerous  sea-voyage, 
the  stormy  harrowing  of  hell,  the  destruction  of  the 
world,  and  that  mighty  cross  standing  there  amidst  the  . 
tumult  as  the  symbol  of  unchanging  Wyrd,  the  Will 
of  God — these  things  would  have  touched  the  native 
chord  of  heroism  and  idealism  within  their  souls,  and 
they  would  have  praised  with  joy  the  minstrel  whose 
art  had  made  the  song. 

Ever  and  anon,  however,  despite  the  humanizing  ef- 
fects of  Christianity,  the  old  love  of  blood  and  strife 
breaks  forth,  and  then  the  disciples  of  Jesus  become 
warriors  instead  of  teachers,  and  the  saints  shout  a  bat- 
tle-cry that  might  have  roused  dragon-fighting  Beowulf 
himself  from  the  grave.  Of  such  a  nature  is  the  story, 
Judith,  sometimes   attributed  to   Cynewulf,   sometimes 


to  Caedmon.  Here  are  lust  and  carousal  and  drunken- 
ness and  virtuous  womanhood  and  valiant  war  and 
treasure-giving  and  all  those  phases  of  song  that  roused 
the  primitive  Anglo-Saxon  enthusiasm.  The  first  nine 
cantos  of  this  ancient  fiction  axe  lost ;  but  the  last  three 

41 


y 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tell  a  vivid,  yes,  a  violent  tale.  ^'We  are  placed,"  says 
Stopford  Brooke,  *4n  the  midst  of  an  eager  life,  in  full 
sympathy  with  liberty,  battle,  and  patriotism,  with  bold 
and  heroic  deeds.  Judith  is  a  fine  creature,  even  finer 
than  she  is  in  the  Apocrypha ;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that 
there  were  many  English  women  of  the  time  capable 
of  her  warlike  passion,  and  endowed  with  her  lofty  char- 
acter."^ 

Holofernes  and  his  guests  carouse  at  a  great  banquet 
— a  typical  English  banquet,  by  the  way — and  the 
''stark-minded  man  stormed  and  yelled,  full  of  fierce 
mirth  and  mad  with  mead" — just  like  an  English  chief, 
again.  Then  he  orders  the  Christian  maiden,  Judith,  to 
be  brought  to  his  tent : 

The  famous  then  in  mind 
Was  glad,  the  ruler  of  cities;  he  thought  the  beautiful  maiden 
With  spot  and  stain  to  defile. 

But  the  monster  was  '*so  drunk  with  wine"  that  he 
fell  in  sleep  across  his  bed.  Then  the  maiden,  wrath- 
ful in  soul,  seized  a  sword,  ''wreathed-locked,"  and 
breathed  a  passionate  prayer  to  the  God  of  Purity : 

Grant,  Lord  of  Heaven,  to  me 
Victory  and  faith  without  fear,  that  I  with  this  sword  may  be 

able 
To  hew  down  this  dealer  of  murder;     .     ,     . 

Avenge  now,  mighty  Lord, 
Glorious  Giver  of  honor,  that  I  am  so  angry  in  mind. 

Then  she  seized  him  by  his  long  hair,  "struck  then 
the  hostile  foe  with  shining  sword"  so  that  half  through 

^English  Literature  from  the  Beginning  to  the  Gorman  Con- 
quest,  p.  146. 

42 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

his  neck  was  cut,  and  then  a  second  time  so  that  *'his 
head  rolled*off  on  the  floor, ' '  and  his  soul  went  * '  strongly- 
enchained  in  the  fire  of  hell."  Thus  early  the  woman 's- 
honor  motif  has  entered  English  fiction,  and  thus  quickly 
was  it  disposed  of  in  early  days.  With  the  same  vivid 
picturing  this  story  of  Judith  continues  its  course,  re- 
lating how  the  lion-hearted  woman,  Saxon  to  the  very 
core,  rushes  forth  with  the  head  of  Holof ernes,  displays 
it  to  the  people,  exhorts  the  warriors,  as  did  Joan  of 
Arc,  to  fierce  battle,  and  sees  the  Assyrians,  panic- 
stricken,  slain  by  the  pursuing  Hebrews.  Then  comes 
the  gift-giving,  without  which  no  old  English  fiction 
would  have  been  complete : 

They  brought  for  herself; 
The  spear-strong  earls,  of  Holofernes 
The  sword  and  gory  helm,  likewise  the  byrnie  broad, 
Adorned  with  reddish  gold,  all  that  the  warrior-chief. 
The  brave,  of  treasure  had,  or  individual  wealth, 
Of  rings  and  jewels  bright;  that  to  the  lady  fair 
The  wise  in  mind,  gave  they. 

How  such  a  story  must  have  thrilled  those  Christian- 
ized Anglo-Saxons  of  the  eighth,  ninth,  and  tenth  cen- 
turies. Here  was  the  strife  of  their  fathers,  the  battle- 
cry  of  yore,  the  stalwart  manhood,  and  the  strong  purity 
of  womanhood  that  had  won  them  victory  in  all  strug- 
gles; it  was  but  a  bringing  over  of  the  old  themes  and 
old  manners  into  the  life  and  the  fiction  of  the  new  and 
more  enlightened  era. 

THE   CHRONICLE 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  contains  not  a  few  of  just 
such  vigorous  phases  of  narrative.     This  ancient  his- 

43 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

torical  account,  probably  begun  at  the  request  of  King 
Alfred,  tells  the  chief  events  of  England's*  days  from 
the  coming  of  the  Romans,  B.  C.  54,  to  the  year  1154. 
A  wonderful  collection  it  is.  Priest  after  priest,  monk 
after  monk,  scholar  after  scholar  wrote  his  brief  com- 
mentary on  the  life  that  he  knew,  and  in  death  handed 
the  pen  to  his  successor.  Portions  of  the  long  story 
are  dull  enough,  it  must  be  admitted — dry  descriptions 
of  petty  doings  in  monastic  circles;  but  now  and  then 
a  momentous  event  occurred,  and  then  the  scribe,  thrilled 
with  fear,  surprise,  or  triumph,  was  lifted  out  of  him- 
self, and  wrote  as  one  inspired.  Two  of  such  noble  pieces 
of  narrative  are  the  poems  on  the  Battle  of  Brunanhurh 
in  937  and  the  Battle  of  Maldon  in  991.  Here  the  old 
war-cry  rings  out  again ;  here  the  love  of  combat  bursts 
the  bonds  of  three  centuries  of  Christian  teaching;  here 
the  British  spirit  speaks  as  it  spoke  in  Macbeth: 

Lay  on,  Macduff; 
And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries,  "Hold,  enough  !*' 

Lord  Tennyson  has  modernized  the  famous  story  of 
Brunanburh  and  has  caught  surprisingly  well  the  spirit, 
the  rhythm,  and  the  diction  of  the  ancient  ballad.  Note 
the  rapidity  of  movement,  the  flash  and  din  of  battle,  the 
glory  in  victory: 

Athelstan  King,  Lord  among  Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower  and  Baron  of  Barons, 
He  with  his  brother,  Edmund  Atheling, 
Gaining  a  lifelong  glory  in  battle, 
Slew  with  the  sword-edge,  there  by  Brunanburh, 
Brake  the  shield-wall,  hew'd  the  linden-wood, 
Hack'd  the  battle-shield. 
Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer'd  brands. 

44 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OP  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

Theirs  was  a  greatness  got  from  their  grandsires — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in  strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their  boards  and  their  hearths  and  their  homes. 

Bow'd  the  spoiler,  bent  the  Scotsman, 

Fell  the  ship-crews  doom'd  to  the  death. 
All  the  field  with  the  blood  of  the  fighters 

Flow'd  from  when  first  the  great  sun-star  of  morning-tide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God,  Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth  till  the  glorious  creature 

Sunk  to  his  setting. 

There  lay  many  a  man  marr'd  by  the  javelin. 

Men  of  the  Northland  shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman  weary  of  war. 

We,  the  West  Saxons,  long  as  the  daylight 

Lasted,  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that  we  hated, 
Grimly   with   swords  that  were  sharp   from  the  grindstone, 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before  us. 

Many  a  carcass  they  left  to  be  carrion; 

Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallow-skin — 

Left  for  the  white-tail'd  eagle  to  tear  it,  and 

Left  for  the  horny-nibb'd  raven  to  rend  it,  and 

Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to  gorge  it,  and 

That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald. 

That  other  story,  the  Battle  of  Maldon,  which  the  his- 
torian, Freeman,  declared  as  ranking  *  *  among  the  noblest 
efforts  of  Teutonic  poetry,"  tells  of  the  struggle  of  the 
Northumbrian  earl,  Birhtnoth,  against  the  Vikings. 
Their  leader,  Olaf,  vainly  attempted  to  cross  a  wooden 
bridge  guarded  by  the  Saxon  Wulfstan,  and  then  cross- 
ing at  a  ford,  met  Birhtnoth  in  deadly  strife.  Birhtnoth 
is  wounded,  but  slays  his  foe.     Again  he  is  wounded,  and 

45 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

while  he  prays  God  to  receive  his  soul,  he  is  cut  down 
by  the  enemy.     Hear  a  few  lines  of  the  thrilling  tale : 

There  was  to  the  Vikings  recompense  given; 

Heard  1  that  one  of  them  slew 

Strongly  with  sword,  stroke  he  withheld  not. 

That  fell  at  his  feet  the  fated  warrior; 

For  that  did  his  prince  give  thanks  to  him. 

To  his  bower-thane,  when  he  had  season. 

So  firmly  stood  the  fierce-in-mind, 

The  youths  in  fight,  eagerly  thought 

Who  there  with  his  spear  might  soonest  be  able 

From  a  fated  man  the  life  to  win, 

A  warrior  with  weapons. 

Then,  as  has  been  said,  Birhtnoth  received  a  mortal 
thrust: 

In  breast  was  he  wounded 
Through  the  ringed  mail;  there  stood  in  his  heart 
The  poisonous  point.     The  earl  was  the  gladder; 
Laughed  the  proud  man,  to  his  Maker  gave  thanks 
For  the  work  of  that  day  that  the  Lord  him  gave. 

I  thanks  to  Thee  give.  Ruler  of  nations. 

For  all  those  joys  that  on  earth  I  experienced; 

Now,  Maker  mild,  most  need  have  I 

That  Thou  to  my  spirit  the  blessings  grant. 

That  my  soul  to  Thee  may  take  its  course. 

Into  Thy  power,  Prince  of  Angels, 

With  peace  may  go;  I  pray  to  thee 

That  fiends  of  Hell  may  not  it  harm. 

There  is  a  stern  pathos  in  all  this — a  pathos  so  manly 
that  it  is  above  all  taint  of  sentimentality.  But  there 
are  foils  to  this  sadness;  our  hatred  of  cowardice  is 
aroused;  the  disgust  of  the  strong-hearted  is  awakened. 
Godric,  the  Saxon,  fled  on  the  horse  of  his  dead  lord, 

46 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

and  other  cowards  followed  him.  Some  heroes,  how- 
ever, yet  remain,  and  these  waged  the  battle  about  the 
corpse  of  their  master.  '^Then  was  there  clashing  of 
shields;  the  seamen  strode  forth,  ireful  in  war.  The 
spear  often  drove  through  the  life-house  of  the  doomed. 
.  .  .  The  heroes  sank  down,  weary  with  wounds." 
The  old  encouraged  the  young ;  the  young  cheered  on  the 
old ;  death  reaped  its  harvest. 

The  manuscript  ends  here  abruptly.  The  story  of  de- 
feat is  too  plain  to  need  further  accounting.  Who  the 
author  was  we  shall  never  know ;  but  this  we  do  know : 
that  in  his  veins  ran  the  old  Saxon  blood  and  that  the 
scene  of  battle  was  secretly  more  fascinating  than  all 
the  dusty  manuscripts  within  the  monastery  walls. 

It  would  seem  that  every  writer  of  those  ancient  times 
loved  the  art  of  story-telling.  King  Alfred  stopped  in 
the  midst  of  his  translations  from  the  Latin  to  thrust 
in  the  stories  that  travelers  told  him;  the  preachers  in 
their  Homilies  held  the  dull  audiences  by  means  of  ani- 
mal fables,  war-tales,  and  saints'  lives.  The  man  who 
could  create  vivid  narrative  was  a  power  for  righteous- 
ness, order,  and  the  progress  of  civilization;  he  could 
command  a  hearing  when  all  other  speakers  failed.  The 
strength  of  the  poet,  the  scop,  was  a  very  real  strength ; 
for  his  voice  might  fire  the  soul  of  the  nation. 

FOREIGN   INFLUENCES 

As,  however,  the  tenth  century  drew  to  its  close  dark- 
ness hovered  over  England.  The  Danes,  year  by  year, 
crept  farther  west  and  south;  they  conquered  here  and 
they  mingled  there;  they  loved  not  learning  or  books; 
they  found  no  joy  in  the  valiant  stories  of  the  Christ 

47 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and  His  thanes.  Imaginative  literature  all  but  died  in 
the  land;  the  poet  was  silenced;  the  story-teller  wrote 
meagerly.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  discouragement  and  deso- 
lation, some  new  narratives  came  among  the  people. 
Already  Norman  injluence  was  showing  itself  in  the 
island,  and  stories  from  Southern  Europe — stories  un- 
like the  stern,  wild  tales  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  began 
to  be  popular.  It  was  perhaps  a  sign  of  weakness,  of 
degeneracy, — this  acceptance  of  the  foreign  love-ro- 
mance and  this  forgetting  of  the  baUads  that  had  roused 
the  early  sires. 

APOLLONIUS 

One  specimen  of  this  foreign  literature  will  suffice — 
the  Greek  romance  of  ApoUonius  of  Tyre,  a  sentimental 
love-story  that  had  entered  Northern  Europe  through  the 
Latin  and  had  been  put  into  Anglo-Saxon  about  the 
year  1000.  ApoUonius,  an  accomplished,  sentimental, 
melancholy,  and,  of  course,  handsome  young  gentleman, 
is  shipwrecked  in  the  land  of  Gyrene.  He  goes  into  the 
city  gymnasium,  pleases  the  king  with  his  acrobatic 
tricks,  is  invited  into  the  royal  household,  and  meets 
the  king's  beautiful  daughter  who,  of  course,  instantly 
falls  in  love  with  him.  At  the  end  of  the  first  day  he 
comes  forth  several  hundred  pounds  of  gold  and  silver 
ahead,  and  with  the  prospect  of  an  early  marriage  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  that  prospect  soon  becomes  a 
reality.     Of  course  they  lived  happily  ever  afterwards. 

This,  then,  was  the  change  that  was  coming  over  the 
people.  In  Beowulf's  day  the  warriors  at  the  feast  would 
probably  have  been  disgusted  with  such  an  effeminate 
gush  of  romance  and  would  have  kicked  the  minstrel  out 

48 


I 


EARLIEST  FICTION  OF  CHRISTIAN  ENGLAND 

of  the  hall.  But  now  it  was  received  and  liked.  Well 
for  the  English  indeed  that  within  another  century  a 
new  race,  the  Norman-French,  with  a  truer  love  for 
sentiment  and  yet  with  a  bravery  uncontaminated, 
should  come  among  them  with  new  and  loftier  ideals  of 
life  and  literature. 


49 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Fiction  of  Norman  England 

It  was  in  888  that  the  Norse  under  RoUo  besieged 
Paris,  and  it  was  almost  exactly  a  quarter  of  a  century 
later  that  his  people  gained  that  part  of  France  now 
known  as  Normandy.  These  Northerners  were  quick  to 
observe  and  learn,  and  before  the  close  of  the  tenth 
century  we  find  them  so  thoroughly  incorporated  into 
the  life  of  France  that  none  could  accuse  them  of  being 
less  civilized,  less  cultured,  less  French  than  their  neigh- 
bors to  the  south.  Even  their  Norse  language  had  dis- 
appeared, and  in  its  place  had  come  a  speech  largely  of 
Latin  foundation  with  but  an  element  of  the  Danish 
remaining.  Brave,  romantic  to  some  extent,  alert, 
quick  to  imitate  and  absorb  the  better  phases  of  the  life 
about  them,  these  people  doubtless  showed  the  most  rapid 
transformation  ever  seen  in  Europe. 

NORMAN  ENGLAND 

These,  then,  were  the  invaders  of  England  in  1066. 
Their  customs,  their  ideals,  their  view  of  life,  their  ex- 
ample had,  however,  invaded  the  islands  years  before. 
The  mother  of  the  English  king,  Edward  the  Confessor, 
was  a  Norman;  he  himself  had  been  educated  in  Nor- 
mandy, and  upon  his  coming  to  the  throne  he  had  placed 
the  French  stamp  upon  his  court.     He  was  surrounded 

50 


r 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

by  Norman  courtiers ;  his  priests  were  Norman ;  Norman- 
French  was  the  favorite  language  in  his  halls;  French 
literature  was  in  his  library ;  and  Norman  minstrels  sang 
of  French  themes.  Thus,  when  William  came,  he  found 
at  least  the  highest  circles  of  English  society  prepared 
for  him.  Nor  did  this  invader  come  without  what  he 
deemed  good  reasons.  He  was  a  relative  of  Edward's 
mother;  he  had  been  promised  the  kingdom  by  Ed- 
ward ;  the  Pope  had  sanctioned  his  claims ;  there  was  an 
English  party  that  wished  him  to  enter.  He  came, 
then,  not  as  a  rude,  barbarous  usurper,  but  as  a 
strong  and  not  unjust  civilized  monarch  claiming  his 
own. 

The  Britain  that  he  found  was  rude  enough.  The 
vast  forests  were  peopled  by  wild  and  often  fierce  ani- 
mals. Along  the  coast  broad  sea-marshes  stretched  un- 
der the  mist.  Through  marsh  and  forest  mere  trails 
served  as  highways,  and  only  the  roads  that  the  Eomans 
had  built  nearly  a  thousand  years  earlier  offered  a  fair 
route  for  commerce.  That  commerce,  confined  almost  en- 
tirely to  hides,  wool,  skins,  and  agricultural  produce,  was 
generally  meager  enough  in  the  summer  and  fall,  but 
during  the  winter  and  spring  was  brought  to  a  dead 
stand-still  by  the  miserable  condition  of  the  paths  of 
communication. 

The  people  were  as  crude  as  their  surroundings. 
Drunkenness  and  gluttony  were  national  traits ;  isola- 
tion, ignorance,  and  suspicion  hovered  over  all  ideas 
and  actions.  A  stranger  was  an  object  of  fear  or 
hatred ;  he  must  blow  a  horn  or  shout  when  approaching 
a  house,  or  run  the  risk  of  being  shot.  Rough  fights 
and  feuds  burst  forth  in  every  gathering  of  the  com- 

5X 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

mon  people;  blood-money  was  the  penalty  for  murder; 
crime  of  a  violent  nature  was  most  common.  Surely 
the  old  Anglo-Saxon  virtues  of  bravery,  sturdiness, 
and  independence  had  grown  too  ripe  and  had  gone  to 
seed. 

The  nation  seems  to  have  been  divided  into  three 
classes,  not  so  much  through  intellectual  or  cultural  at- 
tainment as  through  cast  of  fortune.  First  came  the 
earls  or  great  land-owners,  men  whose  ancestors  had 
been  leaders  for  centuries.  Then  came  the  churls  or 
farm-workers,  who  might  hold  land  of  their  own,  but 
who  were  attached  to  the  earl  and  his  property,  and 
were  always  included  in  the  sale  of  the  property.  Last 
came  the  thralls,  or  slaves,  men  without  property  rights 
or  suffrage,  in  many  instances  the  descendants  of  the 
ancient  Welsh  whom  the  Saxons  had  overcome.  The 
people  were  ignorant  and  unambitious.  The  monasteries 
with  their  broad  lands  and  well-built  houses  were  about 
the  only  centers  of  culture  in  vast  areas,  and  served, 
in  spite  of  their  disobedience  of  church  laws  and  their 
worldliness,  to  keep  alive  some  intellectual  life.  There 
was  no  national  language ;  three  rather  distinct  dialects, 
the  Northern,  the  Midland,  and  the  Southern,  contained 
a  few  books,  most  of  which  were  unintelligible  to  readers 
of  only  one  of  these  tongues.    • 

William,  coming  among  such  conditions,  did  not  at- 
tempt any  sudden  revolutions,  but  wisely  left  untouched 
the  customs,  the  ideals,  and  the  religion  of  the  common 
folk.  Naturally,  however,  tremendous  changes  took 
place.  The  three  classes  of  British  society  were  leveled 
into  one,  and  the  new  castes  consisted  of  but  Normans 
and  English.     This,  of  course,  injured  the  former  aris- 

52 


r 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

tocrats,  but  undoubtedly  aided  the  lowest  classes,  who 
now  found  themselves  on  almost  the  same  plane  as  their 
earlier  masters.  Perhaps  the  greatest  results  were  the 
destruction  forever  of  British  isolation,  the  awakening 
of  British  intellect  through  the  discipline  of  conquest 
and  suffering,  and  the  wider  diffusion  of  the  Celtic 
spirit  through  the  more  intimate  relationship  of  the 
former  Saxon  nobles  and  the  Welsh  serfs.  The  insti- 
tution of  feudalism  was  far-reaching  in  its  effect  on 
architecture,  social  life,  government,  and  war.  More 
splendor  appeared  at  court;  the  love  of  the  pageant 
and  festival  was  more  evident;  the  refinements  of  man- 
ner, speech,  and  dress  were  revelations  to  the  Saxons; 
the  regard  for  the  fine  arts,  the  greater  dignity  of  the 
continental  Catholic  Church,  the  interest  in  sentiment — 
all  these  meant  education  to  the  natives.  The  Normans 
were  not  remarkably  original,  but  were  greedy  adopters ; 
they  were  religiously  inclined,  but  not  highly  moral; 
they  were  not  so  much  creators  as  improvers  of  the 
romantic.  To  the  British,  therefore,  they  may  not  have 
brought  so  much  the  nobler  qualities  of  strong,  clean 
manhood,  but  they  did  indeed  bring  nimbleness,  cheer- 
fulness, brilliancy,  and  a  facile  and  beautiful  language. 
That  language  necessarily  became  the  medium  of  court, 
parliament,  bar,  university,  and  church,  but  yet  it  did 
not  thoroughly  mingle  itself  with  the  vernacular  for 
nearly  three  centuries.  In  1258  royal  proclamations 
were  issued  in  Latin,  French,  and  English ;  in  1302  Eng- 
lish was  spoken  in  the  law  courts ;  in  1340  Oxford  stu- 
dents were  required  to  talk  Latin  or  French  at  their 
meals;  until  1345  all  school  instruction  was  in  French; 
in  1350  English  practically  ceased  to  absorb  French; 

53 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

in  1363  the  Chancellor  opened  Parliament  with  English ; 
and  between  1340  and  1400,  the  period  of  Chaucer's  life, 
there  was  spoken  and  written  a  language  having  a  large 
infusion  of  French,  no  doubt,  but  read  without  undue 
effort  in  our  own  day. 

That  was  a  brilliant  period  between  1100  and  1300, 
— a  time  of  great  events  and  great  men.  On  both  the 
continent  and  British  soil  the  universities  seemed  to  un- 
dergo a  revival,  and  Bologna,  Orleans,  Montpellier,  Paris, 
Salerno,  Oxford,  and  Cambridge  were  crowded  with 
zealous  students.  The  Crusades  gave  a  glamour  to  the 
day ;  splendid  tournaments  added  picturesqueness ;  while 
fierce  feuds  between  barons  and  kings  brought  out  the 
sterner  qualities  of  the  races.  Henry  of  Anjou  destroyed 
eleven  hundred  castles  in  his  campaigns,  and  depended 
upon  the  common  folk  for  aid  in  such  destructive  work. 
Under  King  John  (1272)  the  English  and  the  Normans 
in  England  were  united  against  the  Normans  in  France, 
and  a  fierce  patriotism  once  more  burned  in  Great 
Britain.  The  deeply  religious  character  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon,  with  his  sternness,  fatalism,  and  stubbornness, 
had  gained  a  tinge  of  romance  from  his  own  mythology, 
his  lives  of  the  saints,  and  the  sufferings  of  his  martyrs ; 
while  the  Norman  romances,  with  all  their  false  loves 
and  woman's  frailty,  had  gained  through  their  Holy 
Grail  and  general  idealism,  a  deep  strain  of  the  religious. 
These  two  streams  of  literature — the  romantically  re- 
ligious of  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  the  religiously  romantic^ 
of  the  Norman — running  on  the  one  hand  from  Orm  in 
the  thirteenth  century  to  Langland  and  Wickliffe  in  the 
fourteenth,  and  on  the  other  hand  from  Geoffrey  and 


vT    V    


>^/ 


i 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


Layamon  in  the  thirteenth  to  Chaucer  in  the  fourteenth, 
gradually  grew  nearer  and  may  be  said  to  have  eon- 
verged  at  length  early  in  the  fifteenth  century.  Re- 
ligion and  romance  no  more  were  foes;  they  mingled 
to  make  the  Arthurian  legend  and  English  romance  and 
poetry  in  general  the  most  nearly  perfect  of  modern 
literatures. 

NORMAN  INFLUENCES 

Under  the  Normans  England  was  even  more  a  land 
of  story  than  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  the  Saxon  scops. 
Indeed  during  the  three  centuries  following  the  Con- 
quest, all  Europe  seemed  to  become  a  nest  of  singing 
birds.  The  troubadours  in  Provence,  the  trouveres  in 
France,  the  Minnesingers  in  Germany,  the  scaldic  bards 
in  Denmark,  the  harpers  in  Wales,  the  minstrels  of  the 
Anglo-Normans — all  united  to  fill  the  world  with  song 
and  legend.  The  Crusades  had  made  anything  be- 
lievable. The  people  were  not  content  to  take  history 
as  it  was;  they  stepped  gladly  from  the  prison  of  fact 
to  the  realm  of  fancy,  and  the  land  was  filled  with  fan- 
tastic dreams. 

The  Anglo-Saxons  could  still  point  with  some  pride 
to  their  Chronicle,  which  was  to  continue  until  1154; 
the  scholars  among  both  English  and  Normans  wrote 
most  credulous  histories  and  chronicles  in  Latin;  the 
court  folk  received  their  romances  and  lays  in  French; 
the  common  people  about  the  tavern  fire  heard  their 
rude  ballads  and  tales  in  an  English  which  was  becom- 
ing daily  more  a  mingling  of  Saxon  and  French.  The 
Saxons  had  retained  their  ancient  love  for  these  things ; 

55 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  invading  Danes  had  doubtless  brought  many  a  rough 
ballad ;  the  Normans  had  now  come  with  a  new  and  more 
refined  vein  of  legend. 

THE   MINSTRELS 

The  old  gleeman  who  had  sung  the  mighty  Saxon 
songs  in  the  chief's  feast-hall  was  now  gradually  losing 
his  prestige.  A  new  and  better  type  of  minstrel  came 
with  the  French,  and  the  earlier  type  at  length  found 
its  proper  place  in  the  hut  and  tavern  kitchen. 

Thus  various  classes  of  raconteurs  came  into  existence 
— some  high,  some  low,  some  singers  in  palaces,  some 
in  dirty  dens  of  vice.  Each  gave  what  his  audience  de- 
manded, and  thus,  incidentally,  brought  down  the  wrath 
of  the  Church  upon  the  class  as  a  whole.  Augustine 
condemned  giving  to  such  wanderers,  and  the  priests 
opposed  them  in  every  community.  Between  1300  and 
^yl325,  however,  the  minstrels  could  be  found  in  prac- 
tically every  home  of  high  rank  throughout  England. 
They  had  a  guild  or  union;  they  wore  *' union"  badges; 
they  had  a  fixed  scale  of  wages;  they  knew  their  im- 
portance at  every  public  occasion  and  profited  by  their 
knowledge.  Everybody  loved  a  minstrel,  and  no  doubt 
in  olden  days  all  happy  hearts  sang  with  Adam  Davy  of 
the  fourteenth  century: 

Merry  it  is  in  hall  to  hear  the  harp. 
The  minstrel  sing,  the  jugglers  carp. 

As  indicated  above,  however,  by  the  close  of  the  four- 
teenth century  the  minstrel  was  losing  power,  and  by 
1450  he  was  scarcely  heard  of  in  the  better  circles  of 
society. 

56 


I 


r 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

But  the  story-telling  specialists,  as  one  might  call 
them,  found  a  rudely  appreciative  audience  among  the 
common  folk  long  before  and  long  after  the  above  dates. 
The  people  of  medieval  days  tried,  it  seems,  to  turn 
everything  into  a  story.  The  preachers,  as  in  Anglo- 
Saxon  days,  continued  to  tell  the  lives  of  saints,  animal 
stories,  even  romances,  anything  to  hold  the  attention 
of  a  thick-headed  audience.  On  trips  through  the  coun- 
try, as  in  the  Canterbury  Tales,  in  the  camp,  on  the 
march,  the  story  beguiled  the  hours. 

FOLK   TALES 

The  old  Anglo-Saxon  liking  for  songs  of  violent  fight- 
ers, such  as  Beowulf,  did  not  die  with  the  coming  of 
the  Normans ;  for  under  the  new  regime  such  heroes  as 
Beves  of  Hampton,  who  had  performed  great  exploits 
in  Armenia ;  Guy  of  Warwick,  who  had  slain  the  Danish 
giant  Colbrand  and  killed  the  savage  boar  of  Windsor 
and  the  ferocious  dun  cow  of  Dunsmoor;  King  Horn, 
the  warrior  and  lover ;  and  Hereward,  revived  and  flour- 
ished. The  English  indeed  relearned  the  lesson  of  their 
own  valiant  ones  through  French  poems  and  romances, 
and  came  to  know  them  thoroughly  only  after  the  legends 
had  become  tinged  with  Norman  traits.  These  stories 
may  have  become  more  artistic  under  the  hand  of  the 
French  raconteur;  but  doubtless  they  lost  much  of  the 
primitive  Anglo-Saxon  virility  and  individuality.  Thus, 
the  story  of  Horn  and  Rimenhild  (c.  1200),  written 
probably  by  a  Norman  in  England  named  Thomas,  pos- 
esses  much  of  the  ancient  war  spirit;  but  the  conven- 
tionalities of  romance,  such  as  the  warning  by  dreams 
and  the  uniform  feats  of  the  hero,  give  even  this  ex- 

57 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

cellent  narrative  a  slight  tone  of  superficiality.  Before 
1300  the  story,  Horn  Childe^  modeled  upon  this  poem, 
showed  what  a  confused  mingling  of  Northern  tradition 
and  French  romance  had  occurred  in  Britain.  Then, 
before  1450  appeared  a  popular  French  romance  on 
Horn,  soon  translated  into  English,  Ponthus  et  Sidoine, 
which,  after  all,  was  largely  a  book  of  instructions  for 
the  making  of  a  perfect  knight.  Thus  the  rude  tale  of  a 
virile  English  or  Danish  fighter  had  evolved  into  a 
guide-book  in  courtesy,  and  the  viking  into  a  '*  flower  of 
chivalry. ' ' 

Havelok  the  Dane,  always  popular  with  the  humbler 
people,  was  perhaps  the  story  of  a  Norse  king,  Olaf, 
a  fighter  whom  Athelstan  drove  out  of  Northampshire 
in  927,  who  was  routed  at  the  Battle  of  Brunanburh, 
and  who  reigned  as  King  of  Dublin  until  981.  Such 
a  hero  would  prove  a  magnet  for  all  loose  bits  of  tra- 
dition, and  many  were  the  tales,  therefore,  that  cen- 
tered about  him.  Eobert  of  Brunne  in  his  Chronicle  tells 
us  of  an  early  metrical  romance  concerning  him.  King 
Counter  of  Denmark  is  slain,  and  his  wife  and  his  son 
Havelok  escape  with  the  aid  of  a  sailor.  Grim.  Being 
attacked  by  pirates,  the  queen  is  killed ;  but  the  boy  and 
Grim  escape  to  Grimsby  where  the  mariner  rears  the 
child  as  his  own.  "When  Havelok  grows  up  he  goes  to 
the  court  of  the  King  of  Lyndsey  (Lincolnshire),  who 
in  time  marries  his  niece,  Argill,  to  Havelok,  who  is  now 
nothing  but  a  kitchen  servant.  The  wife,  wishing  Have- 
lok to  find  some  high  ancestry  to  relieve  her  of  this 
disgrace,  urges  him  to  go  to  Grimsby,  where  his  real  pa- 
rentage is  discovered.  Havelok  then  goes  to  Denmark, 
recovers  his  father's  kingdom,  successfully  wages  war  in 

58 


w 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


England  to  regain  his  wife's  lands,  and  thus  becomes 
ruler  of  Denmark,  Lyndsey,  and  Norfolk. 

This  British  Havelok  is  one  figure  not  greatly  weak- 
ened by  French  conventionalities.  Before  1300  there 
was  a  three-thousand  line  English  poem  on  the  subject, 
in  which  the  characters  are  rude,  homely  people ;  Have- 
lok is  sheltered  by  a  real  fisherman,  and  the  fisherman's 
wife  is  more  ugly  than  the  usual  fishwife.  The  king's 
son  works  like  a  peasant;  he  becomes  an  apprentice  to 
a  cook.  The  tale  is  decidedly  democratic,  and,  giving 
views  of  ordinary  life  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies and  possessing  the  free  ballad  air,  it  gained  for 
Havelok  a  sure  place  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  He 
was  granted  a  position  in  the  histories  of  the  time;  he 
was  given  a  date  of  reigning  (usually  in  the  sixth  cen- 
tury) ;  and  his  name  was  often  used  in  connection  with 
Danish  claims  to  the  British  throne. 

French  stories  of  the  British  heroes,  Beves  of  Hampton 
and  Guy  of  Warwick,  were  current  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, were  put  into  English  early  in  the  thirteenth, 
and  were  popular  from  that  period  even  up  to  the  days 
of  Samuel  Johnson.  So  well  known  did  legends  of  these 
two  become  that  their  names  were  at  length  subjects  for 
lighter  tales,  and  finally  of  stories  tinged  with  foulness.  , 
As  we  have  noted,  Guy  and  his  fight  with  the  Danish 
giant  present  an  excellent  opportunity  for  a  stirring 
legend,  and  indeed  the  knight  needed  but  a  talented  poet 
to  make  him  the  theme  of  a  lengthy  romance.  Beves, 
more  popular  in  France  and  Holland  than  in  Britain, 
was,  nevertheless,  portrayed  in  Anglo-Norman  chansons 
de  geste  and  Middle  English  romances.  Originally  a 
Danish-English  tale  of  the  tenth  century,  its  hero,  like 

59 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

most  French  heroes,  evolved  into  a  fighter  of  dragons 
and  monsters  and  an  adventurer  who  escaped  by  trick, 
intrigue,  or  supernatural  aid.  Here,  once  more,  the 
primitive  fire,  simplicity,  and  dignity  of  the  older  form 
were  probably  crushed  out  by  the  unending  array  of 
conventional  deeds  and  characteristics. 

Now,  too,  in  discussing  the  tales  that  became  a  part 
of  the  common  heritage,  we  must  not  forget  the  people 's 
ideal,  Eobin  Hood.  Whether  or  not  he  lived  we  cannot 
tell.  Professor  Child,  the  greatest  authority  on  ballads, 
considers  him  a  * '  creation  of  the  ballad  muse.  ^ '  Doubt- 
less there  were  as  early  as  the  fourteenth  century  many 
gests  or  tales  of  this  Robber  of  the  Green  Wood;  but 
the  forms  we  have  to-day  are  of  about  1500.  Here  in- 
deed was  a  hater  of  rich  churchmen  and  haughty  nobles, 
but  a  true  lover  of  his  king,  a  respecter  of  womanhood, 
a  man  who  loved  his  fellow  men,  his  country,  and  his 
religion;  in  short,  an  epitome  of  yeoman  virtues.  No 
wonder  that  the  folk  loved  him  and  that  all  other  ballad 
heroes,  even  though  near  to  the  heart  of  the  hearers,  be- 
came subordinate  to  him. 

Now,  all  such  stories  had  an  abundant  store  of  vulgar 
or,  at  least,  coarse  humor,  and  thus  side  by  side  with 
the  nobler  themes  of  Arthur  and  Alexander,  as  heard 
in  the  castles,  this  common  current  ran  its  muddy  course. 
The  story  of  Sir  Cleges  might  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the 
wit — not  vulgar  here — that  tickled  the  groundlings  of 
Norman-English  society.  Sir  Cleges,  while  praying 
under  a  cherry  tree  at  Christmas  time,  discovers  ripe 
fruit  on  the  branches.  He  takes  a  basket  of  it  to  the 
King  of  Cardiff,  but  is  so  ragged  that  before  gaining  ad- 
mittance he  has  to  promise  the  porter,  the  usher,  and 

60 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

the  steward  each  a  third  of  the  present  expected.  The 
pleased  monarch  asks  him  what  reward  he  desires;  he 
requests  twelve  hard  strokes,  and  these  he  distributes 
among  the  three  scamps,  much  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
court  audience.  Not  only  is  the  liking  for  the  practical 
joke  to  be  found  here;  there  is  another  and  a  deeper 
idea  conveyed:  the  common  folk  were  growing  tired  of 
romance;  the  parody  or  burlesque  on  it  had  come,  and 
that  meant  danger  to  the  original. 

The  fabliaux,  or  merry  tales,  were  innumerable.  Al- 
ways jolly,  often  vulgar,  luckily  they  were  generally 
brief — something  to  be  told  while  men  drank  their  ale 
about  the  tavern  hearth.  The  women  in  these  narra- 
tives were  invariably  false  or  scolding  jades,  a  wilful 
perversion  of  the  dainty,  fairy  ladies  of  the  French  ro- 
mances, and  another  evidence  that  the  common  people 
could  not  stand  too  much  Arthurian  tenderness  and 
sentiment.  An  early  specimen  of  the  fabliaux  is  The 
Land  of  Cohaygne — a  reversion  of  Avalon,  a  blessed 
country  where  fat  monks  and  priests  might  indulge  their 
gluttony  and  adultery.  Another  example  is  The  Friar 
and  the  Boy,  a  well-beloved  tale  in  England,  one  in 
which  a  boy  with  a  magic  pipe  makes  a  priest  cut  all 
sorts  of  unseemly  capers.  The  same  enchanted  cup  idea 
that  the  higher  minstrels  developed  so  wonderfully  into 
the  noble  Legend  of  the  Holy  Grail  became  in  the  hands 
of  the  lower  folk  The  Tale  of  the  Basin,  a  bowl  so  be-v 
witched  that  it  held  fast  all  who  touched  it,  thus  caus- 
ing intense  joy  to  the  lucky  ones  who  saw  half  the 
village  struggling  to  gain  freedom.  The  man  who  is 
hard  to  kill,  a  theme,  charmingly  mingled  with  romance 
in  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight,  found  himself 

61 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

degenerated  into  the  people's  hero,  Dan  Hugh  Monk, 
who  was  hanged  once  and  slain  four  times,  but  per- 
sisted in  living.  As  we  read  later  of  the  lovely  and 
lovable  stories  of  Arthur  and  his  Table  Round,  stories 
which  made  the  noble  ladies  in  the  castle  weep  for  sym- 
pathy, we  must  not  forget  that  down  in  the  lower  strata 
of  society  another  current  of  legend  was  flowing,  a 
stream  that  was  just  as  likely  to  have  its  effect  upon 
the  fiction  of  a  later  date. 
r"  The  churchmen  in  their  efforts  to  elevate  these  ''folk 
of  the  earth"  invented  religious  tales  of  the  same  sim- 
plicity. Both  Frenchman  and  Englishman  were  ex- 
ceedingly fond  of  religious  legends.  Of  course  stories 
of  St.  Nicholas,  the  patron  of  sailors,  were  favorites; 
but  tales  of  British  and  Celtic  saints  were  as  enthusi- 
astically told  by  Normans  as  were  narrations  of  Conti- 
nental churchmen.  Specimens  of  such  Celtic  themes 
retold  in  Norman-French  are  the  Lives  of  St.  Alhan, 
Jt  St.  Catherine,  St.  George,  and  the  popular  St.  Brendan, 
the  last  named  being  but  the  old  Welsh  legend  of  the 
hero  who  visited  the  Isles  of  the  Blest.  Full  of  supersti- 
tion these  may  have  been ;  yet  undoubtedly  they  had  an 
effect  upon  the  people,  especially  of  rural  England. 
In  one  of  these  stories  a  Jew  (the  hated  Hebrew  was  a 
favorite  subject)  attempted  to  roast  his  son  for  com- 
muning with  Christians  at  Easter ;  but  the  Virgin  Mary 
made  the  oven  entirely  comfortable  for  the  child.  In 
such  stories  the  Virgin  performed  innumerable  mira- 
cles, such  as  reviving  the  drowned  or  restoring  to  life 
the  martyrs  burned  at  the  stake  or  hanged ;  while  Christ 
himself  sometimes  came  down  to  earth  and  had  con- 
tests of  strength  or  skill  with  mortals.     Thus,  in  Tfeej 

62 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

Smith  and  His  Dame,  Christ  takes  a  blacksmith's  ugly 
mother-in-law  and  forges  her  into  a  beautiful  lady; 
while  the  smith,  attempting  the  same  trick  with  his 
wife,  hammers  her  into  a  pulp.  How  had  magic,  ro- 
mance, and  religion  fallen  from  their  high  station  in 
such  tales  as  these! 

Along  with  this  type  went  the  beast  fables,  stories 
brought  into  England  at  the  Conquest,  but  originating 
far  back  in  the  dawn  of  creation  among  the  peoples  of 
Asia.  Bestiaries,  as  such  collections  were  called,  were 
immensely  popular,  and  the  Church,  finding  the  books  a 
pleasant  and  convincing  means  for  teaching  moral  les- 
sons, aided  heartily  in  increasing  their  popularity. 
Strange  indeed  were  the  theological  conclusions  gained 
from  the  beast  stories.  The  lion  covers  his  trail  with 
his  tail;  after  his  birth  he  sleeps  for  three  days  and  is 
then  aroused  by  his  father 's  roaring ;  he  sleeps  with  his 
eyes  open.  So,  '* dearly  beloved,"  Christ  hid  himself 
on  earth  so  that  the  devil  might  not  find  Him ;  He  lay 
in  the  tomb  until  the  third  day,  when  the  might  of  the 
Father  aroused  Him;  His  eyes  never  close  on  mankind. 
Doubtless  the  people  cared  precious  little  about  the 
moral,  but  they  liked  to  hear  about  the  animals.  Just 
as  in  the  development  of  the  legends  of  Arthur,  Alex- 
ander and  Charlemagne,  these  beast  fables  at  length 
began  to  form  a  kind  of  epic  or  legend  about  one  ani- 
mal, Reynard  the  Fox,  and  throughout  England,  Ger- 
many, Holland,  France,  and  Italy,  Reynard  was  known 
to  high  and  low.  The  shrewd  Chaucer  used  just  such 
a  story  in  his  Nun's  Priest's  Tale;  while  the  shrewder 
Caxton  printed  in  1481  translations  of  some  exploits  of 
the  foxy  hero  that  gained  an  enormous  vogue  for  such 

63 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

an  unlettered  day.  Students  of  comparative  literature 
have  pointed  out  that  these  allegorical  animal  legends 
probably  originated  in  a  collection  called  Physiologus, 
written  by  Alexandrian  Christians,  a  book  which,  after 
spreading  throughout  Western  Europe,  had  a  Middle 
English  imitation  about  1225.  Be  that  as  it  may,  those 
tales,  old  almost  as  humanity  itself,  aroused  among  the 
peasant  English  an  abiding  enthusiasm  scarcely  equaled 
by  any  or  any  part  of  the  great  cycles  of  romance  known 
among  the  upper  classes. 

These,  then,  were  the  forms  of  fiction  with  which  the 
common  people  were  intimately  acquainted — degraded 
parodies  on  legends  of  magic,  funny  stories  of  domestic 
troubles,  accounts  of  practical  jokes,  tales  of  religious 
miracles,  lives  of  the  saints,  and  allegorical  legends  of 
animals.  The  wonderful  narratives  of  Arthur  and 
Charlemagne,  Alexander  and  Troy,  were,  of  course, 
known  to  them ;  but  they  cared  not  to  abide  long  on  such 
high  levels,  and  in  these  lower  forms  of  the  story-teller's 
art  they  found  unceasing  interest  and  merriment. 

THE   HIGHER   FICTION 

The  nineteenth  century  brought  forth  an  undue  or 
exaggerated  vaunting  of  democracy.  The  genius  of 
the  *^ common  people"  has  constantly  been  thrust  be- 
fore us.  But  the  noblest  literature,  like  education,  has 
generally  come  from  ahove  downward,  and  not  from  be- 
low upward,  and  as  we  study  the  development  of  fiction 
we  find  that  it  is  not  always  the  theme  most  popular 
among  the  idolized  ''masses"  that  makes  for  great  lit- 
erature, but  frequently  the  creations  of  some  fine,  deli-i 
eate  soul  almost  unknown  to  the  vast  public  of  hia 

64 


r 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

period.  To  some  extent  this  is  the  ease  in  our  present 
study.  A  few  scholarly  churchmen,  a  few  hermit-like 
scribes,  a  few  aristocratic  minstrels,  casting  about  among 
their  yellow  parchments,  gathered  lofty  themes  that 
have  made  English  literature  the  glory  and  the  pride 
of  Western  culture. 

Much  might  be  said  of  medieval  idealism.  It  was  a 
day  of  dreamers  of  high  visions,  and  their  cathedrals, 
their  paintings,  their  sculptures,  and  especially  their 
literature  show  it.  In  their  efforts  toward  self-expres- 
sion, their  writings  often  seem  exaggerated;  but  they 
are  filled  with  a  poetic,  almost  pathetic  striving  to  body 
forth  the  high  creations  of  a  glowing  imagination.  So 
in  England  the  chronicle  writers  in  the  monasteries  and 
churches  and  the  minstrels  in  the  castle  were  not  con- 
tent to  have  their  historical  figures  remain  mere  human 
beings,  but  attributed  to  them  all  mortal  and  immor- 
tal virtues,  all  beauty  and  sweetness,  all  magic  and  mys- 
tery. 

War  and  religion  and  love  were  the  principal  themes,  , 
and  the  Normans  accepted  from  any  source  whatever 
ideas  that  might  aid  in  idealizing  these  three  themes. 
'*  Wherever  his  neighbor  invented  or  possessed  any- 
thing worthy  of  admiration,  the  sharp,  inquisitive  Nor- 
man poked  his  aquiline  nose.  .  .  .  The  Norman 
was  a  practical  plagiarist," — practical  because  he  saw 
that  all  these  acquisitions  gave  importance  to  his  nation ; 
practical  because  he  improved  on  everything  he  ac- 
cepted. He  therefore  seized  the  stories  of  Alexander 
and  Troy  from  the  Greek  and  the  Latin,  the  exploits  of 
Charlemagne  from  the  French,  the  story  of  Arthur  from 
the  Welsh,  the  tales  of  Horn  and  Havelok  and  Beves 
s  65 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

from  the  Saxons,  and  he  wove  them  into  cycles  of  ro- 
mance never  excelled  in  any  literature. 

THE   CLASSICAL   MATTER 

Before  entering  into  the  greatest  and  the  most  Eng- 
lish of  these  cycles,  the  Arthurian,  perhaps  it  would  be 
well  to  dispose  of  the  other  groups  of  legends  that  to 
some  degree  entertained  the  people  of  Britain.  The 
traditions  of  Greece  and  Eome,  such  as  the  stories  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  Troy,  and  Brutus,  long  enjoyed 
an  immense  popularity  upon  the  Continent;  but  they 
met  with  only  a  fair  degree  of  success  among  the  peo- 
ple of  Britain.  And  yet  the  medieval  British  devoutly 
believed  themselves  of  Trojan  blood.  Had  not  all  their 
early  chroniclers,  Nennius  in  his  History  of  Britain, 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  in  his  History  of  the  British 
Kings,  Wace  in  his  Brut  d'  Angleterre,  and  Layamon  in 
his  Brut,  explicitly  stated  that  Brutus  in  his  flight  from 
Troy  had  come  to  these  islands,  settled  there,  and  thus 
gained  for  them  the  name  *^ Britain''?  Not  only  the 
islanders  themselves  but  practically  all  the  inhabitants 
of  Western  Europe  accepted  the  legend,  and  gathered 
about  it  a  mighty  mass  of  poetry  and  romance.  To- 
ward the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century  a  Frenchman, 
Benoit,  put  the  account  into  his  Roman  de  Troie,  and  his 
popular  story  still  further  spread  the  tradition  through- 
out the  Continent.  The  book  suited  the  times;  for, 
though  the  names  remained  Greek,  the  situations,  the 
characters,  the  general  tone  were  medieval;  the  usual 
Norman  fays,  demons,  and  monsters  were  present,  and 
the  warriors  of  Troy  became  knights  of  chivalry.  As 
Professor  Schofield  says,  in  his  English  Literature  from 

66 


r 


THE  FICTION  OF  NOEMAN  ENGLAND 

the  Norman  Conquest  to  Chaucer,  ^'Benoit  saw  antiq- 
uity through  a  glass  darkly  and  relished  the  sight,"  and 
he  caused  others  to  enjoy  it  for  the  same  reason.  A  cer- 
tain scholar,  Joseph  of  Exeter,  wrote  a  Latin  poem,  Be 
Bello  Trojano,  about  1187,  and  this  brought  the  legend 
further  favor  among  the  higher  literary  classes  of  Eng- 
land. Then  came  Guido  of  Sicily  about  1280  with  his 
famous  Latin  book  on  the  Destruction  of  Troy,  and  this 
in  the  original  and  in  translation  caused  even  greater 
enthusiasm  than  Benoit's  version  of  the  previous  cen- 
tury. It  was  translated  into  English,  and  every  chron- 
icler copied  from  it.  Shortened  forms  of  the  story,  such 
as  the  Sege  of  Troy,  dealing  with  only  certain  episodes, 
grew  popular  on  the  island;  such  an  episode  we  find  in 
Chaucer's  beautiful  Troilus  and  Cresseide,  The  liking 
for  the  legend  did  not  soon  perish;  the  scholars  who 
read  the  histories  of  Geoffrey,  Wace,  and  Layamon 
doubtless  often  repeated  the  stories ;  Lydgate,  as  late  as 
1415,  wrote  in  his  Troy  Book,  or  History  of  the  Siege 
and  Destruction  of  Troy  more  than  thirty  thousand 
lines;  while  Caxton  in  the  first  volume  printed  in  the 
English  language  (1474)  used  it  as  the  theme  of  his 
Becuyell  of  the  Historyes  of  Troye. 

The  story  of  Thebes  was  another  sometimes  told  in 
English  courts  and  very  often  in  continental  courts. 
Even  before  the  Troy  legend  had  grown  popular  this 
narrative  had  been  put  into  a  French  romance  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  under  the  influence  of  the  roving 
Normans  it  became  widely  known  through  Italy,  Spain, 
France,  and  Germany,  and,  to  some  degree,  in  England. 
Boccaccio  used  it  in  his  story,  II  Teseide;  Chaucer  gave 
a  version  in  his  Knight's  Tale;  Lydgate  attempted  to 

^7 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tell  the  whole  story  in  poetry;  Caxton  translated  a 
French  form,  Livre  des  Eneydes,  toward  the  close  of 
the  fifteenth  century;  Shakespeare  used  the  legend  in 
his  Two  Noble  Kinsmen;  and  Dry  den  found  it  an  in- 
spiration for  his  Palanwn  and  Arcite.  It  is  apparent, 
therefore,  that  it  gained  an  audience  in  Great  Britain, 
but  whether  a  large  or  enthusiastic  one  is  doubtful. 

The  cycle  of  Alexander  the  Great  had  somewhat  bet- 
ter fortune  among  the  islanders.  Versions  in  the  Nor- 
man, Latin,  Anglo-Saxon,  Scottish,  and  Middle  English 
testify  to  its  popularity  even  among  the  masses.  The 
legends  undoubtedly  reached  the  English  shore  before 
the  Norman  Conquest;  indeed,  they  had  been  known 
widely  through  Europe  before  the  Normans  became  a 
nation. 

In  all  these  Alexander  was,  of  course,  modernized; 
he  became  a  chivalrous  knight  of  medieval  habits,  a  sort 
of  ** Homer  in  a  dress  suit";  while  fays  and  giants  and 
mysterious  creatures  and  the  Otherworld  made  his  ad- 
ventures as  romantic  as  heart  could  desire.  But  what 
is  the  story  all  about?  Surely  the  mere  conquests  by 
Alexander  were  not  sufficient  for  the  immense  body  of 
legend  gathered  in  these  works.  By  no  means;  Alex- 
ander, like  other  medieval  subjects,  gathered  to  himself 
all  the  attributes  of  strong  heroes,  all  the  love  adven- 
tures of  lovers  whose  names  would  not  come  quickly  to 
mind,  all  the  deeds  that  forgotten  warriors  had  ever 
accomplished. 

Culling  from  the  various  versions,  we  find  the  story 
starting  with  the  strange  circumstances  surrounding 
Alexander's  birth.  Nectanabus,  an  Egyptian  king  and 
magician,  goes  to  Macedonia,  falls  in  love  with  Olym- 

68 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

pias,  persuades  her  that  the  god  Ammon  is  in  love  with 
her,  impersonates  Ammon  himself,  thus  becomes  the 
father  of  Alexander,  educates  the  boy  carefully,  and  is 
repaid  for  his  pains  by  being  thrown  into  a  pit,  where 
he  perishes.  Now  begin  the  great  adventures  of  the 
young  hero.  The  King  of  Cesarea  insults  him;  Alex- 
ander conquers  the  monarch;  the  hero  threatens  to  de- 
stroy Athens,  but  is  dissuaded  by  Aristotle;  he  returns 
home  to  find  his  supposed  father  about  to  make  a  union 
with  Cleopatra,  and  he  drives  her  away  in  disgrace. 
Then  Philip  is  poisoned  by  Olympias  and  her  paramour. 
Alexander  goes  forth  to  fight  the  Persian  king,  Darius, 
who  has  sent  him  an  insulting  message ;  he  bathes  in  the 
Cydnus,  crosses  Lube  and  Lutis,  sees  a  strange  hill  that 
makes  brave  men  cowards  and  cowards  brave,  captures 
Tarsus,  besieges  Tyre,  meets  with  mighty  resistance 
from  the  Philistines,  but  overcomes  all  enemies,  enters 
Jerusalem,  and  avenges  the  murder  of  Darius. 

And  now  the  marvelous  experiences  are  but  begin- 
ning. He  goes  in  a  glass  case  to  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean;  he  sees  the  wonderful  scenery  and  the  peoples 
of  India;  he  overcomes  Darius'  friend,  Porus;  he  pun- 
ishes the  mighty  fighters,  Gog  and  Magog,  and  shuts 
them  off  with  a  magic  wall ;  he  sees  the  Pillars  of  Her- 
cules; he  is  attacked  by  strange  beasts  and  horrible, 
abnormal  men;  he  enters  the  *' Valley  from  Which  None 
Return,"  but  escapes  by  aid  from  a  devil  whom  he  had 
set  free;  a  part  of  his  army  perishes  because  of  the 
wiles  of  sirens ;  he  meets  three  ancient,  horned  men,  who 
tell  him  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  the  Fountain  of 
Immortality,  and  the  Fountain  of  Resurrection;  on  at- 
tempting to  reach  these  springs   he  is  hampered  by 

69 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

fierce  monsters;  a  forest  of  plant-maidens,  half  flower, 
half  human,  aid  him;  he  and  his  army,  after  great  suf- 
fering, reach  the  Fountain  of  Youth  and  become  as 
young  men.  The  speaking  Trees  of  the  Sun  and  Moon 
foretell  the  manner  of  his  death ;  Porus,  hearing  of  this, 
wages  battle  with  him  and  is  slain;  Alexander  visits 
Babylon  and  flies  through  the  air  in  a  chariot  drawn 
by  griffins;  the  Amazons  displayed  their  fighting  quali- 
ties ;  the  warrior  is  warned  by  his  mother  of  treachery ; 
he  is  poisoned;  he  divides  his  dominion  among  the 
Twelve  Peers,  and  perishes. 

This  is  but  the  merest  outline  of  some  versions  of  the 
legend;  but  into  this  huge  framework  fitted  a  mosaic  of 
love  episodes,  intrigues,  fierce  encounters,  magic  tricks, 
mysterious  visits,  that  could  not  be  described  fully  in 
the  span  of  one's  life.  It  was  an  exhaustless  source  of 
vivid  fiction,  and  its  power  of  entertaining  gave  it  a 
tremendous  influence  in  the  development  of  Continental 
narrative  and  no  small  influence  on  the  course  of  Eng- 
lish fiction.  It  appealed  to  the  Saxon  love  of  a  physical 
hero ;  it  satisfied  the  Norman  longing  for  love-romance ; 
it  charmed  the  Celtic  sense  of  the  mysterious  and  mys- 
tical. Had  not  a  greater  and  truer  story  in  the  Ar- 
thurian legend  come  forward,  it  might  have  become  the 
foremost  cycle  of  the  British  Isles. 

Before  leaving  this  *^ matter  of  antiquity"  perhaps 
one  or  two  other  stories  of  classical  source  should  be 
mentioned.  Apollonius  of  Tyre,  as  we  have  seen,  had 
become  known  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  before  the  entrance 
of  the  Norman;  nor  did  it  lose  its  popularity  among 
the  nation.  Gower  used  the  story  in  his  Confessio 
J    Amantis;  Shakespeare,  to  some  extent,  in  his  Pericles, 

70 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

The  romance  of  Blnnchefleur  and  Floris,  with  its  old 
tale  of  lovers'  separation  and  reunion;  the  Squire  of 
Low  Degree,  popular  because  it  told  of  a  common  per- 
son's rise  in  life  and  thus  appealed  to  the  democracy  of 
the  crowd;  the  legend  of  William  of  Palerne,  translated 
from  the  French  about  1350  and  bringing  in  the  an- 
cient idea  of  a  man's  or  woman's  being  changed  into  a 
beast;  stories  of  the  nine  worthies — Arthur,  Charle-/ 
magne,  Godefroy,  Hector,  Alexander,  Caesar,  Joshua, 
David,  and  Judas  Maccabeus — these  tales,  largely  of 
early  Eastern  origin,  found  a  willing  audience  through- 
out England.  Then,  there  was  the  sweet  poetry-story, 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  which  bids  fair  to  gain  its 
former  popularity. 

Sweet  the  song,  the  story  sweet. 
There  is  no  man  hearkens  it. 
No  man  living  'neath  the  sun. 
So  outwearied,  so  foredone. 
Sick  and  woeful,  worn  and  sad. 
But  is  healed,  but  is  glad, 
'Tis  so  sweet. 

Nicolette,  of  foreign  birth,  is  loved  by  the  king's  son, 
Aucassin;  but  his  father's  pride  separates  them,  and 
each  suffers  as  a  prisoner  for  love  of  the  other.  Wild 
was  their  passion  for  each  other.     Cries  Aucassin: 

*^In  Paradise  what  have  I  to  win?  Therein  I  seek 
not  to  enter,  but  only  to  have  Nicolette,  my  sweet  lady 
that  I  love  so  well.  For  into  Paradise  go  none  but  such 
folk  as  I  shall  tell  thee  now:  thither  go  these  same  old 
priests,  and  halt  old  men  and  maimed,  who  all  day 
and  night  cower  continually  before  the  altars  and  in  the 
crypts ;  and  such  folk  as  wear  old  amices  and  old  clouted 

71 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

frocks,  and  naked  folk  and  shoeless,  and  covered  with 
sores,  perishing  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and  of  cold,  and 
of  little  ease.  These  be  they  that  go  into  Paradise; 
with  them  I  have  naught  to  do.  But  into  Hell  would 
I  fain  go;  for  into  Hell  fare  the  goodly  clerks,  and 
goodly  knights  that  fall  in  tourneys  and  great  wars, 
and  stout  men  at  arms,  and  all  men  noble.  With  these 
would  I  liefly  go.  And  thither  pass  the  sweet  ladies 
and  courteous  that  have  two  lovers,  or  three,  and  their 
lords  also  thereto.  Thither  goes  the  gold,  and  the  sil- 
ver, and  cloth  of  vair,  and  cloth  of  gris,  and  harpers, 
and  makers,  and  the  prince  of  this  world.  With  these 
I  would  gladly  go,  let  me  but  have  with  me  Nicolette, 
my  sweetest  lady ! ' ' 

At  length  Nicolette  escapes  to  the  forest,  and  Aucas- 
sin,  set  free,  goes  hunting,  finds  her,  and  flees  with  her 
to  the  King  of  Torelore,  the  monarch  of  a  land  where 
war  is  waged  with  baked  apples,  eggs,  and  cheese.  Au- 
cassin  frees  the  king  of  all  enemies  and  lives  a  season 
of  bliss  with  Nicolette.  Then  the  lovers  are  carried  off 
by  the  Saracens,  and  after  years  of  separation  are 
united  once  more  at  Biaucaire. 

When  his  love  he  saw  at  last. 
Arms  about  her  did  he  cast; 
Kissed  her  often^  kissed  her  sweet. 
Kissed  her  lips  and  brow  and  eyes. 
Thus  all  night  do  they  devise 
Even  till  the  morning  white. 
Then  Aucassin  wedded  her. 
Made  her  Lady  of  Biaucaire. 
Many  years  abode  they  there. 
Many  years  in  shade  or  sun. 
In  great  gladness  and  delight. 

72 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

Ne'er  hath  Aucassin  regret, 
Nor  his  lady  Nicolette. 

Such  stories,  together  with  the  collections  of  accounts 
about  great  heroes  and  lovers,  such  as  the  Gesta  Boman- 
orum  (c.  1300),  used  so  frequently  by  Chaucer,  Lyd- 
gate,  Shakespeare,  and  others,  were  doubtless  based 
largely  on  classic  foundations,  but  gained  in  time  a 
gentleness,  a  tenderness,  a  touch  of  chivalric  romance 
totally  unkaown  to  the  ancient  raconteurs  who  first  told 
them. 

THE  MATTER  OF  FRANCE 

The  Alexander  cycle  and  the  Troy  cycle,  as  we  have 
seen,  gained  a  wide  audience  on  the  continent  and  at 
least  a  favorable  hearing  on  English  soil.  The  third 
great  cycle,  the  Charlemagne,  seems  to  have  been  the 
only  one  of  the  four  that  really  originated  from  the 
people,  and  on  the  Continent  became  as  well  known  in 
hut  as  in  palace.  The  Arthurian  legend,  gaining  its 
wide  notice  through  the  more  scholarly  writers  and 
more  aristocratic  minstrels,  was  indeed  more  artistic, 
and  in  later  centuries  far  more  famous  and  productive ; 
but  neither  it  nor  the  Alexander  nor  the  Troy  gained 
the  ear  of  the  common  folk  so  readily  as  traditions  of 
the  wonderful  Charles  the  Great.  We  all  have  read 
how  the  gallant  minstrel,  Taillefer,  rode  before  the 
Norman  invaders  at  the  Battle  of  Hastings,  flashing  his 
staff  into  the  air  and  bravely  singing  the  Song  of  Rol- 
and:. 

God  and  his  angels  of  Heaven  defend 
That  France  through  me  from  her  glory  bend; 
Death  were  better  than  fame  laid  low,  / 

Our  emperor  loveth  a  downright  blow. 
73 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  song  tells  the  story  of  Roland's  mighty  battle 
against  the  Saracens  in  a  pass  of  the  Pyrenees.  One 
blast  of  his  horn  would  have  brought  his  emperor, 
Charlemagne,  to  the  rescue;  but  Roland  prefers  to  die 
rather  than  ask  aid  against  a  ''pagan''  foe. 

I  will  not  sound  on  my  ivory  horn; 

It  shall  never  be  spoken  of  me  in  scorn 

That  for  heathen  felons  one  blast  I  blew. 

The  result  is  death,  and  a  terrible  vengeance  visited 
by  Charlemagne  upon  the  enemy. 

The  Song  of  Roland  is,  therefore,  but  a  branch  of 
the  widespread  Charlemagne  legend,  and  Taillefer's 
singing  it  is  but  another  evidence  of  the  fascination 
the  cycle  had  for  courtier,  soldier,  and  peasant.  Both 
English  and  Norman  could  admire  this  mighty  Charles; 
for  he  was  recognized  as  the  first  great  Christian  mon- 
arch; in  him  were  mingled  the  admirable  traits  of 
Christian  and  racial  fidelity.  In  time  the  Normans  in 
England,  probably  from  jealousy,  exalted  Arthur  so 
that  the  Normans  of  the  Continent  might  realize  that 
Britain,  too,  had  its  mighty  hero;  but  it  was  long  be- 
fore the  mild  Prince  of  Avalon  overshadowed  on  the 
mainland  the  great  figure  of  the  Frankish  warrior. 
These  poetical  stories  of  Charlemagne  and  other  valiant 
leaders  took  unto  themselves  the  name  chansons  de 
geste,  ''songs"  of  "actual  deeds,"  and  such  chansons, 
long  sung  by  the  minstrels,  were  at  length  written  down 
in  their  poetic  form,  and  later  turned  into  prose.  Then, 
at  last,  any  account  of  real  or  imaginary  deeds  became 
known  as  a  "gest,"  and  as  the  humbler  story-tellers 
lowered  the  tone  of  the  legends  and  turned  them  into 

74 


I 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


merry  tales,  the  once  brave  and  serious  stories  secured 
for  themselves,  when  collected,  the  name  *' jest-books." 
From  the  virile  descriptions  of  the  mighty  Charles  to  the 
scurrilous  squibs  found  in  some  of  these  jest-books  is  a 
tremendous  fall;  but  one  may  trace  the  descent  by  the 
fragments  knocked  off  as  the  legend  bumped  down  from 
one  stage  of  society  to  another. 

This  Song  of  Roland,  in  existence  before  1050,  is 
based,  like  all  these  cycles,  on  some  historical  founda- 
tion. The  Gascon  mountaineers  did  destroy  a  French 
host  at  the  Eoncesvalles  Pass  in  the  Pyrenees  in  August, 
778,  and  Eoland  of  Brittany  was  killed.  From  such  a 
meager  germ  the  legend  expanded  to  great  length.  The 
mountaineers  became  Saracens,  and  thus  Roland  be- 
came a  defender  of  both  France  and  Christianity.  A  fair 
lady,  Aude,  is  introduced,  and  she,  hearing  of  her  lover's 
death,  dies  of  sorrow.  Charlemagne,  old  and  mighty 
warrior,  is,  like  Arthur  in  his  legend,  not  the  main 
figure  in  each  event,  but  seems  to  hover  in  the  back- 
ground, never  intruding,  but  never  wholly  out  of  mind. 
The  savage,  proud  emotion  in  it,  the  surge  of  battle,  the 
idealism  of  it  all,  should  have  appealed  to  Anglo-Saxon 
as  well  as  to  Norman,  and  there  is  plentiful  evidence 
that  it  was  long  popular  in  Great  Britain.  Even  after 
the  French  had  lost  their  prestige,  the  poem  was  trans-  .^ 
lated  into  English,  and,  though  written  for  knights  and 
the  higher  ranks  of  warriors,  was  not  unknown  among 
the  other  ranks  of  society. 

Numerous  indeed  were  the  legends  of  Charles.  One, 
the  Pilgrimage  of  Charlemagne,  composed  apparently 
for  the  middle  classes,  tells  of  his  going  to  Jerusalem,  of 
the  deep  reverence  accorded  him  there,  and  of  the  gifts 

75 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

presented;  but  the  inevitable  plebeian  longing  for  the 
comic  element  demanded  that  he  stop  at  Constantinople, 
where  he  gets  drunk,  and  is  saved  from  disgrace  only 
by  the  intervention  of  God.  Thus  did  the  Middle  Ages 
mingle  the  reverent  and  the  gross.  In  order  to  gain 
an  excuse  for  his  stopping  in  this  city  the  story  states 
that  his  wife  had  declared  Hugo,  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople, a  handsomer  man  than  he.  Perhaps  too 
sudden  confirmation  of  the  truth  was  the  excuse  for  his 
shameful  spree  in  the  land  of  strangers. 

Eoland's  experience  with  a  Saracen,  Sir  Otuel  of 
Spain,  was  another  popular  theme  of  the  cycle.  Otuel 
and  Roland  are  bitter  foes ;  but  at  length,  in  the  midst  of 
a  terrific  duel,  a  dove  descends  from  Heaven  and  lights 
upon  the  Saracen.  The  meaning  is  too  evident  to  be 
scorned;  he  becomes  a  Christian;  he  marries  the  king's 
daughter ;  and  evermore  he  fights  for  the  faith  of  Christ. 
This  artful  mingling  of  war,  religion,  and  love  is  one 
of  the  most  sincere  charms  of  medieval  literature, — 
indeed,  a  charm  as  real  and  gratifying  to  us  of  to-day, 
as  to  men  of  seven  centuries  ago.  This  same  mingling 
may  be  seen  in  another  of  the  Charlemagne  stories, 
Roland  and  Yernagu,  which  tells  of  Charlemagne 's  trip 
to  Constantinople,  his  campaign  against  the  Saracens  in 
Spain,  and  the  fierce  battle,  lasting  two  days,  between 
Eoland  and  a  black  giant,  forty  feet  tall,  named  Ver- 
nagu,  in  which  duel  Eoland,  noticing  the  weariness  of , 
his  foe,  grants  him  time  for  sleep  and  gathers  stones  to  = 
place  as  a  pillow  under  the  monster's  head. 

Just  as  we  should  expect,  in  the  course  of  time  these 
brave  stories  of  Charlemagne  took  on,  among  the  better 
classes,  more  and  more  of  the  romantic  and  fairy  char- 

76 


i 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


acter.  Lord  Bemers'  translation,  The  Book  of  Duke 
Euon  de  Bordeaux,  a  well-written  Charlemagne  narra- 
tive, is  a  good  illustration;  for  here  the  hero  has  lost 
his  barbarous  fierceness,  and  reminds  us  of  Arthur, 
while  Oberon  enters  to  introduce  the  ever-pleasing 
theme  of  fairyland.  It  touched  a  responsive  chord  in 
the  British  heart ;  Spenser  shows  its  effect  in  his  Faerie 
Queene,  Shakespeare  in  his  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
and  Keats  in  his  Endymion.  This  fairy  matter  was  in- 
deed a  most  successful  bid  for  popularity ;  for  the  fairy 
mythology  was  native  to  the  Celts  and  pleasant  to  the 
Normans,  while  the  Anglo-Saxons  were  rapidly  culti- 
vating a  taste  for  it. 

MATTER  OF   BRITAIN 

As  we  have  seen,  the  Charlemagne  legend,  in  spite 
of  its  popularity  among  the  higher  classes,  never  be- 
came a  national  cycle  in  England.  The  people  admired 
its  wars  and  its  heroes;  but  the  country  and  the  times 
were  changing  so  rapidly  that  no  one  group  of  leaders 
existed  long  enough  to  have  centered  about  themselves 
the  marvelous  doings  of  Charles  and  his  fighters. 
When,  on  the  other  hand,  the  English  read  or  heard  the 
Arthur  legend,  they  did  not  seek  to  find  a  modern  na- 
tional hero  to  fit  into  it;  for  this  story  was  not  merely 
English  but  universal,  ^*The  matter  of  Britain  was  in 
its  beginnings  largely  myth  and  fable;  that  of  France 
was  idealized  fact.  .  .  .  When  men  read  the  stories 
of  King  Arthur  and  his  knights,  they  felt  the  glamour  of 
mystery ;  they  were  bespelled  by  unreality,  by  visions."  ^ 

1  Schofield's  History  of  Eng,  Literature,  Norman  Conquest  to 
Chaucer,  p.  125. 

77 


ENGLISH  FICTION 


h 


f  In  this  cycle  of  the  gentle  Arthur  we  have  the  mos' 
rounded,  the  most  subtle,  the  most  artistic  of  all  legr- 
ends.  The  others,  the  Troy,  Alexander,  and  Charle- 
THagne,  might  run  on  forever;  their  heroes  had  no  one 
ideal;  their  wars  might  last  as  long  as  a  fresh  lot  of 
heroes  could  be  created.  But  here,  when  we  see  the 
blameless  Prince  of  Avalon  sink  down  in  death  near 
the  *^ broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross,''  **we  have 
reached,"  as  Saintsbury  says  in  his  Flourishing  of  Ro- 
mance, ^^and  feel  that  we  have  reached,  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter  when  the  Graal  has  been  taken  to 
Heaven,  and  Arthur  has  gone  to  Avalon.  .  .  .  The 
end  is  not  violent  or  factitious,  it  is  necessary  and  in- 
evitable. ' ' 

Numerous  bitter  controversies  have  arisen  as  to  the 
origins  of  this  Arthurian  matter.  There  seem  to  be 
four  theories,  which,  in  the  words  of  Saintsbury,  are: 
*'(I)  That  the  legend  is  not  merely  in  its  first  con- 
ception, but  in  its  main  bulk,  Celtic,  either  (a)  Welsh 
or  (b)  Armorican.  (II)  That  it  is,  except  in  the  mere 
names  and  the  vaguest  outline,  French.  (Ill)  That 
it  is  English,  or  at  least  Anglo-Norman.  (IV)  That 
it  is  mainly  a  literary  growth,  owing  something  to  the 
Greek  romances,  and  not  to  be  regarded  without  error 
as  a  new  development  unconnected,  or  almost  uncon- 
nected, with  traditional  sources  of  any  kind."  Per- 
haps a  mingling  of  all  these  would  come  nearer  the 
truth  than  any  single  theory.  The  half-hidden  influ- 
ences of  classical  lore,  sifting  through  all  stages  of  so- 
ciety, must  not  be  neglected ;  the  influence  of  Provence 
and  Wales  on  the  development  of  this  special  cycle 
cannot    be    cast    aside.     Eleanor    of    Poitou    married 

78 


I 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


Henry  II  in  1149,  and  the  famous  love-poet,  Bernard  de 
Ventadour,  resided  with  her.  There  was  a  constant 
coming  and  going  of  troubadours  between  England  and 
the  Continent  during  the  eleventh,  twelfth,  and  thir- 
teenth centuries,  and  these  French  and  the  Welsh  bards 
must  have  found  themselves  close  together  in  both 
spirit  and  temperament.  Then,  too,  French  writers, 
such  as  Marie  de  France  and  Crestien  de  Troyes,  spent 
a  portion  of  their  lives  in  England  and  there  did  liter- 
ary work  akin  to  the  Welsh  legends  and  writings. 

The  writers  of  chronicles  in  Great  Britain  deserve 
no  minor  honors  for  their  part  in  carrying  forward  and 
developing  this  wonderful  legend  of  Arthur  and  the 
Table  Round.  There  was  a  real  Arthur,  it  appears,  a 
leader  of  the  Britons  after  the  departure  of  the  Romans 
in  the  fifth  century, — a  leader  who,  from  a  petty  chief 
of  a  West  England  army,  grew — thanks  to  these  chron- 
iclers^ — into  a  world  conqueror.  It  seems  that  Arthur  is 
first  mentioned,  or  rather,  indicated,  in  the  Historia 
Britonum  of  about  826,  a  book  which  was,  perhaps,  an 
amplified  form  of  one  written  a  little  after  600.  The 
historian  Gildas  who  apparently  was  Arthur's  con- 
temporary, says  in  his  De  Excidio  et  Conquestu  Britan- 
nice  that  the  Britons  so  badly  defeated  the  invading 
Saxons  at  Mount  Badon  that  for  fifty  years  the  country 
was  undisturbed.  Nennius  tells  us  that  Arthur  was 
commander  in  a  great  battle  at  Mount  Badon  and  gained 
a  lengthy  peace.  Thus  through  this  battle,  occurring 
between  480  and  500,  we  have  double  authority  for  the 
''Arthurian"  leadership  mentioned  by  later  historians. 
Soon  after  the  death  of  this  valiant  leader  the  stories 
of  ancient  Welsh  gods  began  to  gather  about  him,  and 

79 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

for  the  next  seven  or  eight  centuries  all  romance  and 
all  figures  of  romance  became  subordinate  to  him  or 
merged  into  his  great  personality. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  such  a  condition  that  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth  found  the  theme  when  he  began  the  book 
which  gave  Arthur  his  first  wide  fame — the  History  of 
the  British  Kings  (c.  1140).  This  might  be  classed  as 
one  of  the  numerous  ^^epoch-making"  books.  Geof- 
frey, a  Welshman  born  at  Monmouth,  early  had  a  rather 
intimate  acquaintance  with  Welsh,  English,  French,  and 
Latin.  As  a  prominent  churchman,  as  Bishop  of  St. 
Asaph,  he  doubtless  became  familiar  with  the  better 
classes  of  Normans,  and  may  indeed  have  heard  in  the 
castles  the  Norman  minstrels  singing  Arthurian  lays 
carried  to  France  by  those  Welsh  who  in  former  cen- 
turies had  fled  to  the  Continent  because  of  the  pressure 
of  the  invading  Saxons.  From  the  fragments  gained 
through  his  reading  and  hearing  in  four  languages,  he 
''wove  together  an  amazing  tissue  of  subtle  fabrication." 
He  claimed  that  he  found  all  in  an  ancient  book;  but 
scholars  of  the  day  laughed  at  his  imaginary  source 
and  scoffed  at  his  History  itself.  But  the  natives 
praised  it  because  it  flattered  their  pride  of  ancestry; 
the  Normans  admired  it  because  it  presented  a  hero  as 
great  as  the  Charlemagne  of  the  Continental  Normans; 
the  general  audience  liked  it  because  it  contained  stories  | 
of  genuine  human  interest.  Therefore,  both  its  friends  1 
and  its  enemies  advertised  it;  its  fame  went  far.  Wil- 
liam of  Newburgh,  of  the  same  century,  says:  ''A  cer-  * 
tain  writer  has  come  up  in  our  times  to  wipe  out  the  | 
blots  on  the  Britons,  weaving  together  ridiculous  fig-  ■ 
ments  about  them  and  raising  them  with  impudent 

80  ! 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


I 

^anity  high  above  the  virtue  of  the  Macedonians  and 
the  Eomans.  This  man  is  named  Geoffrey,  and  has 
the  by-name  of  Arthur,  because,  laying  on  the  color  of 
Latin  speech,  he  disguised  with  the  honest  name  of 
history  the  fables  about  Arthur  taken  from  the  old  tales 
of  the  Britons  with  increase  of  his  own."  Some  of  the 
churchmen  passed  the  story  about  that  a  man  possessed 
of  devils  could  drive  them  away  by  placing  the  Gospel 
of  John  upon  his  breast;  but  that  if  he  placed  Geof- 
frey's book  instead,  they  returned  in  legions.  The 
book  was  the  '*best  seller"  of  the  twelfth  century. 

From  this  time  forth  every  chronicler  felt  it  a  duty 
to  tell  and  to  add  to  the  legend  of  Arthur.  Gaimar  in 
his  French  translation  of  Geoffrey  (before  1150),  Mat- 
thew Paris  (1259)  in  his  widely  known  Chronica  Major, 
the  scholarly  churchman  and  entertaining  historian, 
Walter  Map  (d.  1210),  the  churchman,  Wace,  in  his 
Brut  d'  Angleterre  (c.  1155),  the  simple-minded,  credu- 
lous Englishman,  Layamon,  in  his  Brut  (c.  1206),  Rob- 
ert of  Gloucester  (c.  1280),  in  his  poetical  chronicle, 
Thomas  Bek  of  Castelford  in  his  history,  Robert  Man- 
ning of  Lincolnshire,  the  author  of  the  once  famous 
Handlyng  Sinne,  in  his  chronicle  of  England,  de  Wau- 
rin's  Recueil  or  Complete  History  of  Britain,  and  Cax- 
ton  in  his  Crony cles  of  England  (1480) — these  and  a 
host  of  others  found  pleasure  in  transmitting  and  en- 
larging the  legend  of  the  national  hero.  There  was  a 
mighty  host  of  tales  that  Malory  found  ready  for  his 
hand  in  1469  when  his  pen  wrote  those  opening  lines 
of  Morte  d' Arthur:  ' '  It  befell  in  the  days  of  Uther  Pen- 
dragon  .  .  .  that  there  w^as  a  mighty  duke  in  Corn- 
wall that  held  war  against  him  long  time." 
6  81 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Each  of  these  chroniclers  tinged  the  story  with  his 
individuality  and  with  the  traits  of  his  nation.  The 
renditions  that  Geoffrey  found  before  him  were  in 
many  instances  at  least  uncouth  if  not  positively  ri- 
diculous. Arthur's  men  could  easily  have  secured  high 
salaries  in  a  modern  museum  or  vaudeville  house.  One 
hero  could  stand  on  one  leg  an  entire  day ;  another  could 
project  his  bristly  red  beard  over  forty-eight  rafters; 
another  had  lips  so  large  that  one  fell  into  his  lap  and 
the  other  curled  about  his  head  like  a  hood;  another 
raised  such  an  outcry  if  his  wants  were  not  satisfied 
that  he  could  keep  an  entire  city  from  sleep.  Yet,  the 
mystical  element  was  by  no  means  absent.  A  messen- 
ger there  was  who  could  walk  on  the  tree-tops,  and 
never  was  known  to  bend  the  grass  as  he  ran;  Arthur's 
guide  could  instantly  find  his  way  through  an  unknown 
country;  the  interpreter  understood  a  language  though 
he  had  never  heard  it  before;  one  knight  could  strike 
fire  from  his  feet;  one  could  make  a  bridge  for  a  great 
army  by  simply  laying  his  sword  flat  upon  the  water; 
one,  though  buried  seven  cubits  in  the  earth,  could  hear 
an  ant  fifty  miles  away  arising  from  its  nest. 

Now,  it  took  the  fantastic  genius  of  Geoffrey  to  build 
from  this  strange  material  a  structure  of  lasting  beauty ; 
it  required  his  genius  to  transform  the  warrior  Arthur 
into  the  romantic  figure  that  has  captivated  the  world. 
Fortunately  Arthur  possessed  the  mystery  of  obscurity, 
and  Geofi^rey,  adding  to  him  whatever  he  pleased,  cre- 
ated him  brave,  handsome,  tender,  religious,  emotional 
— all,  indeed,  that  the  chivalrous  knights  and  courtly 
ladies  of  Norman  days  could  desire.  The  Welsh  fighter 
immediately  became  '*a  very  perfect,  gentle  knight," 

82 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

and  more — a  superhuman  defender  of  the  ideals  of  hu- 
manity. 

His  father  is  a  king  who  by  the  aid  of  the  magician, 
Merlin,  satisfies  his  passion  for  the  beautiful  wife  of  an 
old  duke.  The  boy,  who  is  the  result  of  this  passion, 
reigns  at  fifteen;  everybody  loves  him;  his  gleaming 
personality  attracts  the  bravest  soldiers,  the  wisest 
counsellors,  the  loveliest  of  women.  But  Geoffrey  does 
not  make  him  a  mere  handsome  gentleman.  In  the 
twelve  great  battles  against  the  Saxons,  which  doubtless 
occurred  at  wide  intervals,  but  which  Geoffrey  arranges 
in  a  short  campaign,  he  is  portrayed  as  a  fighter  who 
would  have  pleased  old  Beowulf  himself.  He  becomes, 
under  the  hand  of  Geoffrey,  the  irresistible  foe  of  the 
Saxons;  he  conquers  Ireland,  Norway,  and  Gaul;  he 
reigns  in  Paris ;  he  even  reaches  the  Alps  in  an  intended 
campaign  against  Rome.  But  rebellion  at  home  and 
the  unfaithfulness  of  the  beautiful  Guinevere  compel 
his  return  to  England,  and  there  in  his  own  land  he  is 
wounded  to  the  death  and  is  carried  afar  to  the  mysti- 
cal island  of  Avalon  to  be  healed.  His  magic  sword, 
Excalibur  or  Caliburn,  had  come  from  that  land  and 
probably,  too,  his  marvelous  dagger  and  cloak  that 
made  him  invisible,  and  the  beautiful  women  of  that 
isle  received  him  in  his  distress.  Surely  the  gods  were 
with  him. 

All  this  was  exceedingly  gratifying  to  the  Normans 
in  England.  In  their  jealousy  of  the  Continental  Nor- 
mans, they  were  glad  to  exhibit  a  hero  of  their  own  who 
had  conquered  France  and  reigned  in  Paris,  and  had 
set  forth  those  rules  which  had  since  become  French 
manners  and  customs.    Then,  too,  Arthur  as  an  indi- 

83 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

vidual  made  every  appeal  to  the  Norman  sense  of 
bravery,  delicacy,  knightliness,  and  chivalry  in  general. 
Eagerly,  indeed,  did  they  encourage  further  renderings 
of  the  legend.  Wace,  writing  in  French,  gave  the 
character  further  French  traits  of  refinement  and  sen- 
timent; he  allowed  him  to  try  tricky  methods  in  over- 
coming enemies,  but  increased  his  politeness  and 
chivalry.  Wace,  it  seems,  added  the  Eound  Table,  and 
gave  the  whole  story  a  greater  tinge  of  romance.  Wal- 
ter Map  elaborated  the  legend  in  most  beautiful  terms, 
and,  if  he  did  not  positively  create  the  Holy  Grail  por- 
tion, at  least  gave  it  that  prominence  which  made  the 
whole  cycle  a  noble  story  of  high  idealism.  Layamon, 
in  his  plain  English  way,  portrays  Arthur  as  a  strong- 
willed,  hard-striking  chieftain,  a  man  always  willing  to 
grant  a  square  deal,  an  Englishman  of  the  old  type. 
Layamon  may  have  had  his  doubts  about  some  of  the 
marvels  related  by  Geoffrey  and  Wace;  but  he  by  no 
means  scorned  the  magic  used  in  the  legend.  He  was 
probably  the  first  to  tell  of  the  three  strange  women  who 
suddenly  appeared  at  the  hero's  birth  and  predicted 
his  fate;  he  was  the  first,  it  seems,  to  tell  of  Arthur's 
departure  to  Avalon  to  be  healed ;  he  added  much  to  the 
description  of  the  mysterious  Kound  Table,  so  con- 
structed that  sixteen  hundred  men  might  be  seated 
without  quarrels  as  to  precedence  and  yet  so  strangely 
made  that  it  could  be  folded  and  carried  by  one  man. 
He  added  many  a  touch  of  realism  to  the  story.  He 
invented  conversations  that  we  wish  to  believe  and  re- 
gret did  not  occur.  Thus,  when  the  foes  sue  for  peace, 
Layamon  gives  this  description: 

''Then  laughed  Arthur  with  loud  voice:    'Thanks  be 

84 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

to  God  that  all  dooms  wieldeth  that  Childric  the  strong 
is  tired  of  my  land!  My  land  he  hath  apportioned  to 
all  his  chief  knights;  myself  he  thought  to  drive  out 
of  my  country,  hold  me  for  base,  and  have  my  realms 
and  my  kin  all  put  to  death,  my  folk  all  destroyed. 
But  with  him  it  has  happened  as  it  is  with  the  fox 
when  he  is  boldest  over  the  weald  and  hath  his  full 
play  and  fowls  enow,  for  wildness  he  climbeth  and  rocks 
he  seeketh;  in  the  wilderness  holes  to  him  he  worketh. 
For  whoever  shall  fare,  he  hath  never  any  care.  He 
weeneth  to  be  of  power  the  boldest  of  all  animals.  But 
when  to  him  come  men  under  the  hills,  with  hounds, 
with  loud  cries,  the  hunters  there  hollow,  the  hounds 
there  give  tongue,  they  drive  the  fox  over  dales  and 
downs;  he  fleeth  to  the  holm  and  seeketh  his  hole;  into 
the  farthest  end  of  the  hole  he  goeth;  then  is  the  bold 
fox  of  bliss  all  deprived,  and  men  dig  to  him  on  every 
side ;  then  is  most  wretched  the  proudest  of  all  animals ! 
So  was  it  with  Childric  the  strong  and  the  rich.'  " 

Eobert  of  Gloucester  in  his  version  was  less  credulous, 
and  spoke  of  the  return  of  Arthur  as  a  ** British  lie,'' 
and  expressed  his  opinion  that  Excalibur  was  just  a 
good  sword  made  in  some  English  town.  Clearly  Rob- 
ert was  a  rather  rank  materialist.  Thomas  Bek  some- 
what defended  the  Anglo-Saxon  invaders,  but  he  could 
dim  none  of  Arthur's  glory  thereby.  Robert  Manning 
plainly  followed  Wace  and  other  French  versions;  he 
elaborated  some  events,  added  the  stories  of  the  British 
heroes,  such  as  Havelok  and  Richard  the  Lion-Hearted, 
and  made  the  Arthurian  legend  indeed  an  English  story 
in  English.  Thus,  we  see,  each  author  gave  the  tale  a 
more  universal  touch,  made  Arthur  more  thoroughly  a 

85 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

mingling  of  the  historical  and  the  mythical,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  bound  the  legend  more  securely  to  Eng- 
lish soil  and  to  English  history. 

The  stories  told  by  Geoffrey  and  these  other  chron- 
iclers, might  in  many  instances  have  appealed  not  only 
to  courtiers  but  to  the  humblest  classes  of  society.  For 
instance,  Arthur's  fight  with  the  giant,  Ritho,  who  wore 
furs  made  of  the  beards  of  kings  whom  he  had  van- 
quished, might  have  been  found  entertaining  to  any 
audience.  This  sort  of  thing  Geoffrey  might  have 
picked  up  in  ordinary  Welsh  tradition;  but  the  glitter- 
ing pictures  of  the  glory  of  Arthur's  court  where  ^Hhe 
valor  of  the  men  was  an  encouragement  to  the  chastity 
of  the  women,  and  the  love  of  the  women  a  spur  to  the 
bravery  of  the  M^arriors," — ^such  pictures  were  created 
by  the  genius  of  Geoffrey  and  his  followers.  The  bril- 
liant tournaments,  the  noble  castles,  the  delicacy  of 
manner,  the  richness  of  dress,  the  wisdom  and  gentle- 
ness of  the  king,  the  charm  of  the  women,  the  cultured 
atmosphere  of  the  court — these  were  idealistic  additions 
to  fascinate  the  Norman  love  of  *^ sweetness  and  light." 

With  astonishing  rapidity  the  legend  spread  over  Eu- 
rope. The  achievements  of  Arthur  became  known  in 
Italy  and  Spain;  a  scene  from  his  life's  history  was 
carved  on  the  Cathedral  of  Moderna  before  1100;  nu- 
merous places  were  named  after  him  or  his  knights. 
It  is  apparent  that  Geoffrey  and  his  imitators  were  but 
satisfying  a  wide-spread  hunger  for  more  knowledge 
concerning  the  hero.  The  traditions  carried  by  the 
Armorican  Britons  in  their  flight  from  Wdles  to  France 
in  the  sixth  and  seventh  centuries  had  cajught  like  fire 
among  the  French  and  the  Normans,  haja  come  back, 

86 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

ienlarged  and  embellished,  with  the  invaders  of  Britain, 
id  had  swept  north  and  south  along  the  European 
Boast.  The  tribal  tradition  of  a  small,  conquered,  and 
iespised  race  had  become  one  of  the  fountains  of  the 
^rorld's  literature. 

MAKING   THE   CYCLE 

Various  odds  and  ends  of  romance  had  been  added 

by   the   Normans  before  their   coming   to   England  in 

=  1066 ;  but  not  until  after  this  date  did  the  story  develop 

.  into  a  great  cycle  with  numerous  branches.     It  is  now 

our  task  to  examine  some  of  these  branches  or  divisions. 

The  Normans,  the  English,  and  the  Welsh  soon  vied 
with  one  another  in  adding  tales  of  other  heroes  to  the 
Round  Table  epic.  Such  characters  as  Gawaine  and 
Lancelot,  formerly  distinct  figures  in  separate  legends, 
gave  up  their  individual  personality  and  merged  it  into 
that  of  Arthur.  It  was  a  gathering  of  heroes  about  one 
standard. 

We  have  the  names  of  at  least  two  Norman  writers 
in  England  who  thus  aided  in  the  development  of  the 
cycle, — Marie  de  France  and  Crestien  de  Troyes. 
Marie,  bom  on  the  Continent  but  long  in  England,  took 
these  ancient  accounts  of  Arthurian  heroes  and  wrought 
them  into  some  of  the  most  finished  lays  in  all  literature. 
There  is  a  witchery  about  all  she  wrote, — a  hint  of  * 
Otherworld  that  makes  her  brief  romances  resemble 
beautiful  dreams.  In  such  a  story  as  her  Guingamor, 
where  the  knight  lives  three  centuries  with  a  fay  in  an 
enchanted  land,  we  forget  the  impossibility  of  it  in  the 
simplicity,  the  beauty,  the  half-sad  sweetness  of  it  all. 
Marie's  companion  writer,  Crestien,  of  the  twelfth  cen- 

87 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tury,  added  tenderness  and  a  romantic  background  to 
the  old  legends,  minutely  described  the  brilliant  tourna- 
ments and  festivals,  and  presented  with  delicacy  what 
we  might  term  the  psychological  aspects  of  the  emotions 
experienced.  Indeed,  Crestien's  influence  in  the  mold- 
ing of  the  cycle  cannot  be  ignored ;  the  Welsh  themselves 
gladly  accepted  his  versions;  the  massive  German  poem, 
Parzival,  which  later  was  to  inspire  Wagner,  was  un- 
doubtedly affected  by  him. 

Here  was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  mortal  and  the 
immortal.  Note,  for  example,  this  summary  of  Marie's 
Launval: 

**One  day,  distressed  by  the  loss  of  his  possessions, 
Launval  is  musing  alone  by  a  river's  side  when  two 
maidens  approach  and  conduct  him  to  their  mistress, 
lying  luxuriously  in  a  splendid  pavilion  near  by.  She 
grants  the  knight  her  love,  gives  him  rich  gifts,  and 
promises  to  be  with  him  later  whenever  he  desires,  im- 
posing but  a  single  condition,  that  he  make  no  boasts 
of  her  to  any  one.  He  lives  for  a  time  supremely  happy 
in  his  new-found  joy;  but  unfortunately  one  day  in 
an  unguarded  moment  he  forgets  the  restriction  his 
amie  has  imposed  upon  him,  and  boasts  of  her  to  the 
queen,  who,  like  Potiphar's  wife,  has  offered  him  her 
love.  In  so  doing  he  forfeits  his  happiness,  for  he 
speedily  discovers  that  the  fay,  true  to  her  word,  no 
longer  heeds  his  desires.  The  queen  having  accused 
him  of  insulting  her,  Launval  is  sentenced  to  death 
unless  he  can  prove  the  truth  of  his  assertions  concern- 
ing his  beloved's  beauty.  His  anguish  at  being  sepa- 
rated from  her  is  keen,  but  his  prayers  are  of  no  avail. 
Not  until  the  last  moment  of  respite  approaches  does 

88 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

the  fay  appear.  Then  in  aU  the  stateliness  of  regal 
magnificence,  preceded  by  two  pairs  of  matchless  maid- 
ens, she  comes  riding  on  a- snow-white  horse  to  Arthur's 
court,  dazzles  the  eyes  of  the  bewildered  assembly,  de- 
nounces the  vicious  queen,  and  obtains  her  lover's  re- 
lease. Thereupon  she  departs  to  the  Isle  of  Avalon, 
whither  Launval  accompanies  her  to  dwell  forever  in 
joy.  "2 

Thus  writer  after  writer,  whose  names  are  now  lost 
or  but  dimly  remembered,  added  in  either  poetry  or 
prose  his  tithe  of  suggestions  or  narratives,  until  by  the 
middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  legend  had  as- 
sumed huge  proportions.  It  lacked  regularity  of  for- 
mation, it  had  not  symmetry ;  it  was  a  mass  of  additions 
often  contradictory,  but  all  important  in  the  making  of 
the  whole.  English  versions  of  the  Breton  lays,  such 
as  Sir  Orfeo,  Sir  Degare,  Emare,  Sir  Gowghter,  and 
The  Erie  of  Toulouse,  came  into  existence,  and  appar- 
ently all  gave  some  hint,  some  scene,  some  episode,  or 
some  character  to  the  ever-growing  cycle.  The  various 
figures  in  these  lays  were  not  allowed  to  remain  in  their 
primitive  state;  they  were  humanized  and  even  Chris- 
tianized, and  were  made  powers  for  chivalry  and  right- 
eousness. Thus,  in  the  story  of  Sir  Gowghter  we  can 
see  the  gradual  approach  to  the  circle  at  the  Round 
Table ;  Gowghter  has  by  this  time  become  Merlin 's  half- 
brother,  and,  like  Merlin,  he  is  predicted  to  be  a  fiendish 
being  but  is  made  an  agent  for  good  through  the  inter- 
vention of  the  Church. 

Each    figure — Merlin,     Gawain,     Tristram — ^had    his 

2  Schofield's  English  Literature  from  the  Norman  Conquest^ 
Etc.,  p.  183. 

89 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

period  of  popularity,  and  at  such  time  his  story  was 
strung  out  far  beyond  all  limits  of  artistic  symmetry. 
At  times  the  great  Arthur  himself  was  almost  forgotten ; 
he  became  often  but  an  unobtrusive,  ever-present  in- 
fluence, serenely  allowing  others  to  act  under  his  re- 
flected glow.  Then,  too,  all  the  women  of  these  stories 
were  of  wondrous  beauty,  dignity,  and  gentleness ;  they 
were  arrayed  in  wondrous  apparel;  and  they  dwelt  in 
wondrous  castles.  These  ladies,  often  fays  or  super- 
natural beings,  almost  always  imposed  some  restrictions 
upon  their  passionate  earthly  lovers — a  pledge  of  se- 
crecy, a  promise  never  to  boast  of  the  lady's  beauty, 
the  accomplishment  of  some  quest,  or  the  promise  that 
a  certain  question  should  never  be  asked.  In  the  strange 
story.  La  Freine,  for  instance,  there  is  something  akin 
to  this  in  the  secret  of  the  heroine's  origin,  and  with  it 
other  characteristics  of  the  Norman  lay,  such  as  the 
gifts  found  with  the  waif,  the  suffering  of  long  separa- 
tion and  the  happy  reunion.  A  maiden  is  ** exposed'' 
by  her  mother,  is  found  in  a  hollow  ash  near  a  convent, 
is  reared  by  the  nuns,  is  secretly  carried  away  by  a 
lord  who  loves  her  at  first  sight.  After  a  time  the 
lord's  followers  demand  that  he  marry  a  woman  of 
rank.  The  girl  accepts  the  situation  quietly  and  is  so 
kindly  disposed  toward  the  new  wife  that  she  puts  upon 
the  bridal  bed  a  mantle  and  a  ring  that  had  been  found 
with  her  in  the  ash.  The  bride's  mother  enters  the 
room,  recognizes  the  relics,  and  confesses  that  the  girl 
is  her  own  daughter.  The  lord  is  overjoyed;  for  the 
*' ash-girl"  is  of  the  noble  blood  required  for  his  wife, 
and  he  may  now  take  her  as  his  legitimate  spouse. 
The  theme  of  conjugal  unfaithfulness  often  entered 

90 


I        THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

Htito  these  lays,  and  as,  in  the  course  of  time,  the  stories 
reached  the  lower  classes,  this  element  often  degenerated 
into  vulgarity  if  not  into  positive  immorality.  The 
popular  tale,  The  Boy  and  the  Mantle,  shows  just  such 
a  theme  on  the  downward  road.  A  boy  appears  at 
Arthur 's  court  and  shows  a  mantle  that  will  fit  only  tlie 
woman  who  has  been  absolutely  moral.  Guinevere  puts 
it  on,  but  finds  to  her  anger  that  it  seems  torn  to  bits. 
Kay's  wife  tries,  with  no  better  success.     Thus  the  fun 

I  continues  until  Caradoc's  wife  tries.  One  little  portion 
at  her  foot  is  slightly  wrinkled,  whereupon  she  con- 
fesses that  she  once  kissed  her  lover  before  marriage. 
Having  been  forgiven  by  a  priest,  she  finds  that  the 
garment  now  fits  exceedingly  well.  The  boy  next  brings 
a  boar's  head  which  only  the  knife  of  a  knight  whose 
wife  had  been  true  could  cut.  '* Knives  became  scarce; 
some  threw  them  under  the  table  and  said  they  had 
none."  Caradoc  again  was  the  victor.  This  chastity 
test  by  means  of  a  mantle,  grail,  or  other  object  was  an 
ever-helpful  device  in  the  old-time  romance,  and  in  at 
least  one  story,  the  Legend  of  the  Holy  Grail,  was  the 
source  of  a  strengthening  idealism. 

THE  TRISTRAM   STORY 

The  story  of  Sir  Tristram,  which  at  length  gave  up 
its  independence  to  become  a  part  of  the  greater  legend, 
was  partially — at  least  in  its  love  theme — of  Celtic  ori- 
gin, and  Welsh  material  undoubtedly  added  much  to  the 
making  of  the  whole  composition.  But  in  each  country  it 
entered  it  took  to  itself  some  national  characteristic,  and 
thus  became  almost  universal  in  its  appeal.  A  version  by 
a  Norman  poet,  Thomas,  gave  it  wide  popularity,  and  the 

91 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tale  in  one  form  or  another  was  soon  found  in  German, 
Italian,  French,  Old  Norse,  and  English.  The  German 
poet,  Gottfried  von  Strassbnrg,  translated  it  early  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  his  version  was  an  inspira- 
tion not  only  to  later  German  poets  but  to  musicians. 
y^  By  1200  a  poem.  La  Folie  Tristan,  based  on  Thomas' 
work,  had  been  written  in  England;  by  1290  a  Middle 
English  poem.  Sir  Tristram,  long  afterward  edited  by 
that  modern  minstrel,  Scott,  wa^  well  known ;  and  from 
French  versions  based  on  Thomas'  book  Malory  secured 
much  of  the  material.  This  Thomas,  apparently  a  con- 
temporary of  Crestien,  was  a  man  of  finer  poetic  spirit 
than  even  the  romantic  Crestien  himself.  The  latter  is 
cynical;  he  smiles  condescendingly  at  his  own  story; 
his  work  is  beautiful  and  artistic,  but  is  the  product 
rather  of  brain  than  of  heart.  This  Thomas,  however, 
felt  what  he  created;  his  emotions  are  contagious;  we 
suffer  with  him  and  his  characters. 

As  has  been  stated,  Tristram  was  long  unconnected 
with  Arthur.  He  was  a  warrior,  the  most  famous  of 
harpers,  a  brave  musician  who  made  Ysolt,  the  Irish 
princess,  love  him  for  his  harping;  he  had  charm  and 
strength  enough  to  stand  by  himself.  Note  but  a  few 
lines  from  the  poem  (as  translated  by  Miss  Weston  from 
Gottfried's  work)  : 

** There  they  [Tristram  and  Isolt]  sat  side  by  side, 
those  two  lovers,  and  told  each  other  tales  of  those  who 
ere  their  time  had  suffered  and  died  for  love.  They 
mourned  the  fate  of  the  sad  Dido,  of  Phyllis  of  Thrace, 
and  Biblis,  whose  heart  brake  for  love.  "With  such 
tales  did  they  beguile  the  time.  But  when  they  would 
think  of  them  no  more,  they  turned  then  again  to  their 

92 


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THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

grotto  and  took  the  harp,  and  each  in  their  turn  sang 
to  it  softly  lays  of  love  and  longing;  now  Tristram 
would  strike  the  harp  while  Isolt  sang  the  words,  then  it 
would  be  the  turn  of  Isolt  to  make  music  while  Tris- 
tram's voice  followed  the  notes.  Full  well  might  it  be 
called  the  Love  Grotto." 

King  Mark  comes  to  the  grotto  and  finds  them  sleep- 
ing side  by  side,  with  a  naked  sword  between  them.  '  ^  He 
gazed  on  his  heart's  delight,  Isolt,  and  deemed  that 
never  before  had  he  seen  her  so  fair.  She  lay  sleeping, 
with  a  flush  as  of  mingled  roses  on  her  cheek,  and  her 
red  and  glowing  lips  apart.  .  .  .  And  when  he 
saw  how  the  sunlight  fell  upon  her  he  feared  lest  it 
harm  her  or  awaken  her,  and  so  he  took  grass  and 
leaves  and  flowers,  and  covered  the  window  therewith, 
and  spake  a  blessing  on  his  love,  and  commended  her  to 
God,  and  went  his  way,  weeping." 

Beautiful  indeed  and  strong  is  the  story;  but,  then, 
everything  was  sweeping  Arthurward.  The  poems  on 
Tristram  passed  into  French  prose;  the  mass  of  narra- 
tive connected  with  him  was  beginning  to  lose  symmetry 
and  logical  sequence;  he  was  becoming  but  a  conven- 
tional knight  doing  the  conventional  deeds.  It  was  time 
for  Malory  to  refashion  him  and  give  him  a  definite, 
even  though  over-shadowed,  place  in  the  presence  of 
Arthur. 

Doubtless  the  simple  original  story  was  very  old  in 
Great  Britain;  perhaps  the  Ysolt  theme  began  in  the 
old  saga  before  the  entrance  of  Christian  influence. 
Unlike  classical  and  many  other  love-legends,  the  pas- 
sion here  is  inevitable,  all-impelling,  and  all-compelling. 
Life  is  one  long  day  of  love.    Love  is  here  the  theme  of 

93 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

themes;  war,  court,  adventure  are  all  subordinate  to 
it;  the  legend  is  an  epitome  of  the  sentiment.  As  we 
have  seen,  its  influence  was  far-spread  in  the  thirteenth, 
fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  centuries.  Malory  gave  it  a 
new  birth  in  the  fifteenth;  Caxton's  press  made  it  easy 
to  obtain ;  in  modern  days  its  popularity  has  not  ceased. 
Tennyson,  Arnold,  Swinburne,  Wagner,  and  poets  and 
musicians  of  minor  fame  have  found  it  inspiring. 

THE   LANCELOT   STORY 

Lancelot,  like  Tristram,  stood,  for  a  time,  separate 
and  distinct;  but  as  early  as  the  twelfth  century  Cres- 
tien  spoke  of  him  in  the  story,  Erec,  as  one  of  the  three 
most  famous  figures  at  Arthur's  court.  Near  1170 
Crestien  himself  wrote  charmingly  about  an  episode  in 
his  adventures,  and  doubtless  the  romance  took  well; 
for  stories  about  the  hero  had  been  popular  in  France 
for  perhaps  a  half-century.  The  Continental  romances 
dealing  with  his  deeds  reached  great  length,  but  in 
England  they  were  generally  short  tales  of  this  or  that 
episode.  There  was,  however,  at  least  one  long  prose 
Lancelot  dealing  with  Arthur,  Gawain,  and  the  Holy 
Grail,  as  well  as  with  Lancelot  himself.  Perhaps  the 
favorite  among  these  adventures  was  his  saving  of  the 
queen  from  imprisonment,  disgrace,  and  probable  death, 
an  incident  told  most  pleasantly  in  Crestien 's  Conte  de 
la  Chareite.  It  is,  of  course,  impossible  in  this  present 
work  to  give  a  summary  of  each  and  every  romance  con- 
nected with  the  various  heroes;  such  an  effort  would 
make  a  huge  volume.  Sufficient  to  say  that  the  tradi- 
tion was  generally  mentioned  of  his  being  educated  by 
a  strange  **Lady  of  the  Lake,''  who  carefully  trained 

94 


t 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

in  knightly  manners;  that  he  loved  Arthur's  queen, 
ruinevere,  with  a  steady  but  sinful  love ;  and  that  thus, 
ith  sorrow  in  his  heart  and  full  realization  of  his  own 
guilt,  he  brought  ruin  to  the  Round  Table.  A  popular 
exposition  of  this  last-mentioned  phase  is  Le  Morte  Ar-  ^ 
thur,  a  poem  of  the  fourteenth  century.  In  it  we  find 
Lancelot  in  disguise  championing  Guinevere  who  is 
about  to  be  burned  because  of  false  accusations.  He 
overcomes  her  accuser,  gains  a  more  passionate  love 
from  her,  and  is  entrapped  with  her  by  Arthur.  Lance- 
lot kills  many  knights,  escapes  to  his  castle.  Joyous 
Garde,  once  more  rescues  the  queen  from  being  burned, 
kills  Gawain's  two  brothers  in  this  adventure,  and  suc- 
cessfully resists  Arthur's  siege.  At  length  by  the  Pope's 
command,  he  returns  Guinevere  to  her  husband,  and 
leaves  England  to  live  in  peace.  Arthur,  however,  is 
driven  to  revenge  by  Gawain,  and  is  again  attacking 
Lancelot  when  word  comes  that  Modred  has  turned  trai- 
tor at  home,  and  the  campaign  ceases. 

Very  early  we  find  the  demands  of  *' courtly  love" 
entering — certain  rules  and  procedures  that  must  be 
followed  in  love-making,  no  matter  how  intimate  the 
couple  may  have  become.  In  spite  of  this  element  which 
sometimes  adds  suspense  to  the  adventures  of  the  pa- 
tient Lancelot  and  the  loving  but  capricious  Guinevere 
— in  spite  of  the  tenderness,  the  human  weakness  of 
their  love,  and  the  constancy  of  it  all,  the  story  did 
not  at  once  gain  among  English  natives  the  popularity 
it  deserved.  A  certain  strict  trait  in  Anglo-Saxon  char- 
acter, a  profound  regard  for  conjugal  faithfulness, 
doubtless  prevented  a  complete  sympathy  for  this  guilty 
love,  and  only  after  Malory 's  labors  could  the  new  Eng- 

95 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

lish-French  race  bestow  sympathy,  admiration,  or  gen- 
uine love  upon  the  passionate  couple.  Here  indeed,  as 
Tennyson  says,  was  a  ''blended  life,"  a  mingling  of 
ruinous  sin  and  noble  idealism. 

THE  GAWAESr  STORY 

In  Gawain  we  find  an  almost  perfect  knight — elo- 
quent, brave,  handsome,  tender,  truthful,  always  courte- 
ous. ''Ever  he  was  wont  to  do  more  than  he  agreed 
and  to  give  more  than  he  promised. '^  Yet,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  we  have  no  separate  biography  of  him 
such  as  we  possess  of  the  others.  Numerous  episodes 
are  accounted,  perhaps  the  best  known  being  Sir  Gawain 
and  the  Green  Knight.  On  New  Year's  day  King  Ar- 
thur and  his  knights  are  at  Camelot,  awaiting  adven- 
tures. A  giant  clad  in  green  and  mounted  on  a  green 
horse  enters  and  offers  to  allow  any  one  to  give  him 
one  stroke,  which  he  will  return  one  year  later.  Gawain 
accepts,  and  strikes  off  the  giant's  head;  but  the  green 
knight  picks  up  the  head,  warns  Gawain  to  meet  him 
at  the  Green  Chapel  twelve  months  later,  and  rides 
away.  At  the  appointed  time  Gawain  seeks  the  place, 
comes  to  a  castle  where  he  is  welcomed  by  a  nobleman, 
and  where  on  three  successive  days  he  is  sorely  tempted 
by  the  nobleman's  beautiful  wife.  He  accepts  from 
her,  however,  only  three  kisses  and  a  magic  girdle,  and 
the  three  kisses  he  returns  to  her  husband.  Proceeding 
to  the  Green  Castle,  he  hears  afar  the  ominous  grinding 
of  an  ax.  The  Green  Knight  meets  him ;  Gawain  bows 
his  head  for  the  stroke;  and  the  giant  turns  the  ax  so 
that  no  harm  is  done.  Then  the  Green  Knight  explains 
that  he  knew  of  his  wife's  wiles  and  that  all  had  oc- 

96 


I 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 


curred  to  prove  Gawain  the  bravest  and  most  virtuous 
knight  in  the  world.  Gawain  returns  to  the  Round 
Table,  and  relates  with  shame  his  deceit  about  the 
girdle.  His  friends  count  this  as  nothing,  and  agree 
ever  afterwards  they  will  wear  a  girdle  of  green  lace  in 
memory  of  the  exploit. 

The  Celtic  influence  in  this  is  clear.  The  beheading 
element  is  connected  with  Irish  legends,  where  its  du- 
plicate may  be  found  in  stories  of  an  Irish  hero,  Cuch- 
ulinn.  Then,  too,  a  chastity  test  is  added,  and  this 
might  have  had  at  least  three  sources :  Welsh,  French, 
or  Oriental. 

As  in  the  case  of  the  other  heroes,  Gawain 's  wonders 
increased  as  time  passed.  In  The  Turk  and  Gawmn, 
another  tale  known  in  Britain,  Gawain  enters  the  Under- 
world, tests  his  strength  with  giants,  and  escapes  through 
the  assistance  of  a  Turk.  This  Turk  requests  as  a  re- 
ward that  his  head  be  cut  off.  As  soon  as  Gawain  does 
the  deed  the  man  becomes  a  handsome  knight,  and  both 
he  and  his  castle  are  freed  from  magic.  In  another 
story,  the  Adventures  of  Arthur  at  the  Tarn  Wadling 
(c.  1350)  we  find  a  mingling  of  Saxon  seriousness  and 
morality  with  French  refinement.  Guinevere  and  Ga- 
wain, left  behind  during  a  hunt,  suddenly  perceive  a 
horrible,  shrieking  ghost,  covered  with  toads  and  snakes, 
rushing  towards  them.  Gawain  demands  the  spirit's 
purpose  or  wish,  and  finds  the  ghost  to  be  the  mother 
of  Guinevere,  suffering  for  the  sins  in  the  flesh.  The 
mother  implores  the  daughter  to  mend  her  ways,  and 
declares  that  thirty  trentals  of  masses  will  relieve  her 
own  horrible  condition.  The  next  day  while  Arthur 
and  his  men  are  still  at  this  place  (Tarn  Wadling) 
7  97 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Galleroun,  whose  property  had  been  given  to  Gawain, 
approaches  and  desires  a  combat  to  settle  the  owner- 
ship. Gawain  and  he  fight,  much  to  the  anxiety  of 
Guinevere  and  Galleroun 's  lady;  but  at  length  Gawain 
wins,  and  then  relinquishes  all  claim  to  the  land.  Gal- 
leroun weds  his  lady,  and  Guinevere  has  the  great  num- 
ber of  masses  sung,  and  thus  all  ends  happily  at  Tarn 
Wadling.  Thus,  little  by  little,  widely  different  inci- 
dents linked  themselves  to  one  character. 
.  By  this  time,  as  may  be  seen,  Gawain  has  become  fully 
attached  to  Arthur,  and  henceforth  we  find  him  the 
king's  right-hand  man.  The  Wedding  of  Gawain  would 
be  but  another  proof  of  his  whole-hearted  loyalty  to  his 
king.  He  marries  a  filthy,  horrible  hag  to  save  Arthur's 
life,  and  with  deep  disgust  he  enters  with  her  into  the 
bedchamber.  There,  however,  she  suddenly  changes 
into  a  beautiful  lady,  and  Gawain  receives  only  joy  for 
his  sacrifice. 

This  Gawain,  ever  brave,  ever  active  in  some  good 
work,  has  been  most  attractive  to  the  English  nature. 
He  was  true  as  steel;  he  was  physically  brave;  he  was 
mentally  alert ;  he  was  morally  wholesome.  The  British 
would  not  willingly  let  him  die ;  one  book  concerning  him, 
the  Singular  Adventures^  declared  emphatically  that  he 
was  still  living  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. 

THE  MERLIN   STORY 

Merlin — the  wizard !  What  a  story  of  intrigue,  what 
a  mingling  of  good  and  evil  forces  center  about  him! 
Long  before  Geoffrey  wrote  his  History  Merlin  was 
known  to  the  Welsh  as  a  prophet,  loosely,  if  at  all,  con- 
nected with  Arthur's  career.     Geoffrey  brings  him  be- 

98 


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THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

fore  us  a  boy  whose  birth  is  mysterious,  his  mother,  a 
nun,  having  no  idea  how  or  when  he  was  conceived. 
The  king  of  the  land  is  told  that  a  certain  tower  he  is 
erecting  will  stand  only  after  being  sprinkled  with  the 
blood  of  a  boy  who  never  had  a  father.  Merlin  is 
brought  before  him  and  instantly  tells  the  cause  of  the 
tower's  weakness.  He  is  gifted  with  foreseeing  power, 
with  a  knowledge  of  all  mysteries.  He  moves  by  magic 
the  huge  stones  for  Stonehenge  from  Ireland;  by  magic 
he  enables  King  Uther  to  gain  access  to  the  lady  Ygerna, 
and  thus  becomes  accountable  for  the  birth  of  Arthur. 
Among  the  Continental  writers  there  was  a  belief  that 
Merlin  was  an  own  son  of  the  devil;  but  later  scribes 
removed  this  slight  hereditary  defect  by  having  him 
baptized  the  moment  he  is  bom,  and  thus  the  wizard, 
although  stooping  to  many  Satanical  tricks,  is  almost 
invariably  on  the  side  of  good.  Robert  de  Borron,  who 
improved  on  Geoffrey  by  giving  us  a  connected  life  of 
Merlin,  was  probably  the  author  who  invented  this  de- 
vice of  hasty  christening.  The  child,  whether  of  devil 
or  human  father,  was  indeed  a  wonder.  When  barely 
eighteen  months  old  he  defended  his  mother  against  an 
accusation  of  adultery  and  proved  the  judge's  own 
mother  to  be  the  guilty  party;  at  five  he  was  chief 
counsellor  to  the  king. 

It  should,  therefore,  not  be  at  all  surprising  that 
lengthy  poetical  and  prose  romances  gathered  about 
him  in  France,  Germany,  and  England.  Before  1290 
some  Englishman,  possibly  a  priest,  had  written  a  long 
and  strong  poem  entitled  Arthur  and  Merlin,  while  the 
wizard's  love  affairs  and  the  tradition  that  he 
had  intimate  relations  with  a  fay — doubtless  the  or- 

99 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

igin  of  the  cunning  Ninian — ^were  the  inspiration 
of  numerous  lays  and  stories.  The  odds  and  ends  of 
magic  gathered  about  him.  Even  when  his  course  was 
run  and,  with  all  his  wisdom,  he  had  not  been  wise 
enough  to  resist  the  wiles  of  a  woman,  the  ancient  Welsh 
conception  of  an  air-castle  came  forward,  and  furnished 
a  means  for  his  eternal  captivity  and  his  eternal  sleep. 
Great  was  the  fame  and  popularity  of  Merlin  of 
Wales.  He  was  a  prophet,  and  his  prophecies  always 
favored  the  Welsh;  he  was  a  magician  and  his  tricks 
ever  overcame  evil.  He  was  another  figure  that  the 
people  did  not  gladly  let  die.  As  late  as  the  Great 
Plague  of  1665,  according  to  Defoe,  fortune-tellers  still 
displayed  a  head  or  picture  of  Merlin  as  a  symbol  of 
their  profession. 

THE   HOLY  GRAIL   STORY 

There  came  at  length  to  the  knights  of  the  Round 
Table  one  great  idealistic  motive — the  quest  of  the 
Holy  Grail.  Around  this  worshipful  object  centered 
all  adventures,  all  desires,  all  high  ambitions.  It  lifted 
the  legend  out  of  the  sphere  of  ordinary  romantic  ad- 
ventures and  re-created  it  as  one  of  the  loftiest  sym- 
bolical literatures  created  by  man.  ''Through  the 
stories  of  the  Grail  the  land  of  Britain  was  glorified  as 
the  first  seat  of  the  Church  of  Christ,  and  the  abiding- 
place  for  ages  of  the  most  precious  relics  of  His  cross 
and  passion."  The  adventures  might  be  commonplace 
incidents  in  the  career  of  the  conventional  knight;  but 
nevermore  could  mere  personal  ambition  or  love  of  vic- 
tory and  praise  be  the  guiding  motive.  The  magic  bowl 
or  cup  was  indeed  but  an  old  familiar  figure  in  Celtic 

100 


r 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN.  ,}3NGljANt>:  ; ,-', 


lore;  but,  once  connected  with  the  sufferings  of  the 
Saviour,  it  bestowed  a  purity,  a  delicate  strain  of  tender 
devotion,  and  a  holy  light  not  found  in  any  other  cycle. 

The  Irish,  Welsh,  or  Celtic  Grail  was  at  first  a  mar- 
velous food-producing  vessel;  but  probably  before  the 
close  of  the  eleventh  century  it  had  become  associated 
with  the  cup  in  which  Joseph  of  Arimathea  caught 
Christ's  blood,  and  the  ancient  tradition  that  Joseph 
had  brought  Christianity  to  England  and  that  Glaston- 
bury, where  Arthur  had  sometime  been,  was  the  first 
seat  of  the  British  Church,  made  the  association  plausi- 
ble and  easy.  Joseph  had  been  cast  into  prison  for 
giving  Jesus  a  decent  burial,  and  the  cup  had  sustained 
him  there  forty  years.  Then,  set  at  liberty,  he  had 
wandered  far  and  wide,  displaying  the  holy  vessel  on 
a  table  which  was  to  be  the  model  of  the  famous  Round 
Table.  In  English  the  versions  of  the  story  were  not  nu- 
merous, there  being  little  more  than  a  few  lives  of  Joseph 
and  the  account  by  Malory.  For  three  centuries  before 
Malory,  however,  there  had  been  lengthy  French  poems 
dealing  with  the  theme,  and  these  were  undoubtedly 
based  on  folk-lore  of  hoary  antiquity. 

When  Walter  Map  entered  with  his  Quest e  del  St, 
Graal,  he  gave  through  his  delicate  art  a  prominence  to 
the  theme  that  it  had  not  hitherto  enjoyed  in  the  Round 
Table  legend.  Walter  Map  knew  that  his  work  was 
significant,  that  it  would  have  a  national  importance. 
Henry  II,  who  desired  the  support  of  the  Welsh  and 
who  had  rebuilt  the  church  at  Glastonbury  and  had 
claimed  that  Arthur's  grave  had  been  discovered  there, 
praised,  favored,  and  advertised  the  romances  of  the 
talented  Walter. 

101 


y,NGLISH  FICTION 

Then,  from  the  great  mass  of  French  material,  that 
genius,  Malory,  selected  this  incident  and  that,  and 
merged  the  cup-theme  for  all  time  with  the  Authurian 
story.  A  wonderfully  dignified  legend  it  was  by  this 
time,  picturesque  and  strong,  filled  with  lofty  idealism, 
longings,  temptations,  sufferings,  defeats,  and  victories. 
There  are  stains  of  infidelity  and  unfaithfulness,  tinges 
of  human  weakness;  but  through  it  all  there  is  enough 
of  the  symbolism  of  the  Christian  struggle  toward  per- 
fection to  carry  it  safely  down  through  the  ages. 

THE   MORTE  D 'ARTHUR   STORY 

It  was  an  ideal  that  ruined  the  Eound  Table — the 
ideal  of  the  Grail.  The  knights  became  star-gazers. 
With  their  heads  in  the  heavens,  they  forgot  to  keep 
their  feet  planted  solidly  upon  the  earth.  Busily  en- 
gaged in  the  high  and  noble  search  for  the  ideal,  they 
did  not  discover  until  too  late  the  seeds  of  destruction 
planted  in  their  midst ;  in  the  search  for  perfection  they 
forgot  to  make  perfect  the  every-day,  commonplace 
deeds  of  life.  And  Arthur,  the  impractical  star-gazer, 
suffered  unto  the  death  because  of  his  visions;  his  air- 
castles  were  not  built  upon  the  Rock  of  Common  Sense. 
And  thus  we  come  to  the  Morte  d' Arthur  story. 

At  first  the  term  was  applied  simply  to  the  episode 
dealing  with  the  actual  ending  of  Arthur,  but  in  time 
the  closing  scene  was  extended  backward  until  the  words 
came  to  mean  the  entire  story  of  his  life.  The  tradition 
of  his  last  struggle  for  Britain  must  have  very  early 
developed  a  literary  form;  for  by  1330  we  find  a  four- 
thousand-line  Middle  English  poem,  Morte  Arthur,  in 
which  Lancelot,  Gawain,  and  other  figures  of  the  Round 
*     102 


THE  FICTION  OF  NORMAN  ENGLAND 

Table  enter,  and  a  detailed  and  stirring  description  of 
the  last  hours  of  the  ''blameless  prince/'  Among  the 
Normans  the  story  was  expanded ;  by  1350  it  had  spread 
through  Scotland;  and  we  find  at  least  one  worthy 
poem,  entitled  simply  Arthur,  imbedded  in  a  dull  Latin 
chronicle.  And,  now,  as  each  nation,  England,  France, 
Scotland,  or  Wales,  began  to  use  the  romance  as  a  means 
of  self-glorification,  as  a  means  of  pouring  forth  bitter 
hatred  for  an  enemy,  incident  after  incident  was  placed 
before  the  death  scene,  until,  as  has  been  said,  the  entire 
legend  gained  the  now  immortal  title,  Morte  d' Arthur. 
And  it  was  Malory  who  made  it  immortal.  With  the 
fine  discrimination  of  a  true  artist,  he  culled  from  the 
world  of  literature  massed  about  the  king,  and  brought 
him  forth  England's  darling. 

It  was  a  prolific  period — those  Norman  centuries  in 
England.  The  innumerable  currents  of  the  world's 
traditions  flowed  into  these  islands;  Britain  became  a 
land  of  dreams.  The  legends  of  Greek  and  barbarian, 
Jew  and  Gentile,  Christian  and  heathen,  met  and  min- 
gled here,  and,  ever  above  all  and  drawing  all  to  it  like 
a  magnet,  stood  the  magical  figure  of  Arthur.  The  age 
was  indeed  'Hhe  Ocean  of  the  Rivers  of  Story." 


103 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Fiction  of  the  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth 
Centuries 

national  changes 

Previous  to  1360  there  had  been  in  England  a  thor- 
ough but  not  sudden  or  violent  breaking  up  and  re- 
shaping of  institutions,  customs,  language  and  litera- 
ture. The  conservativeness  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  nature 
and  the  fact  that  the  Norman  rulers  in  England  still 
held  large  possessions  in  France  retarded  the  nation  in 
the  process  of  becoming  a  perfect  unity;  and  that  final 
unity  came  only  when  the  Norman  had  given  up  prac- 
tically everything  and  the  native  Englishman  little  or 
nothing.  Now,  however,  after  1350  political  and  intel- 
lectual slavery  were  dwindling  away  under  the  infor- 
mation, new  ideas,  alertness,  and  confidence  gained 
through  war,  commerce,  and  travel.  The  peasant  had 
now  become  an  important  factor  in  all  struggles.  The 
common  folk  were  constantly  advancing,  and  their  rep- 
resentatives in  Parliament  grasped  more  and  more 
power.  In  1330  Edward  defeated  the  Scotch  through 
the  aid  of  the  humbler  soldiers;  the  battles  of  Crecy 
in  1346  and  Poitiers  in  1356  were  won  by  English  yeo- 
men ;  the  Black  Death  from  1348  to  1369  made  laborers 
so  scarce  that  they  could  demand  a  comfortable  living 
wage;  in  1381   Wat  Tyler's  Rebellion  revealed  anew 

104 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

their  growing  ambition.  Feudalism  and  chivalry  were 
dying  hard;  but  the  end  was  not  far  off  and  was  has- 
tened by  the  contemptible  conduct  of  the  higher  classes. 
At  Crecy  the  French  knights  cut  down  the  foot-soldiers 
in  front  of  them  so  that  they  themselves  might  be  the 
first  to  display  their  valor.  After  the  Black  Death  an 
attempt  was  made  in  England  to  bind  the  workmen  to 
the  noblemen's  estates.  A  lack  of  regard  for  the  feel- 
ings of  the  common  man  caused  the  Tyler  and  Ball  re- 
volts, and,  though  the  brief  campaigns  were  failures, 
they  gained  for  labor  a  greater  share  of  national  regard 
and  respect.  The  Church,  instead  of  aiding  such 
classes,  was  more  nearly  a  hindrance.  But  through  the 
passionate  words  of  such  reformers  as  Langland  and 
Wickliffe  a  wide  interest  in  religious  duties  and  rights 
was  created,  and  the  Church  itself  was  given  a  new  life. 
These  circumstances,  together  with  the  increase  of 
commerce  and  the  wide  travels  of  English  sailors  and 
the  consequent  increase  of  broadening  information,  made 
the  last  years  of  the  fourteenth  century  a  period  rather 
akin  to  the  Elizabethan  Era  in  its  energy,  ambitions,  and 
intense  desire  for  self-expression.  In  1362  Langland 's 
Piers  Plowman  appeared,  in  1366  Chaucer's  Eomaunt 
of  the  Rose,  in  1387  the  Canterbury  Tales,  in  1393 
Gower's  Confessio  Amantis,  and  near  1400  Mandeville's 
Travels,  Great  numbers  of  French  words  were  ad- 
mitted during  the  first  half  of  the  century,  and  even 
such  a  prominent  writer  as  Gower  seems  to  have  been 
in  doubt  as  to  what  language  would  survive  as  a  literary 
medium,  and  therefore  wrote  in  Latin,  French,  and 
English.  The  example  of  Chaucer,  Langland,  and 
Wickliffe,  however,  did  much  toward  settling  the  ques- 

105 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tion,  while  the  immense  importance  of  London  inevit- 
ably made  the  East  Midland  English  the  national 
tongue. 

It  was  indeed  a  picturesque  day.  Along  the  roads 
leading  out  from  London  might  be  found  innumerable 
fakirs,  medicine-men,  mountebanks,  pardoners,  begging 
brothers,  tricksters  of  every  sort.  The  quacks  offered 
you  the  identical  powder  that  had  made  Venus  and 
Helen  beautiful;  a  friend  of  the  fakir  had  found  it  in 
the  ruins  of  Troy.  Friars  showed  you  cases  of  pigs' 
bones  and  swore  that  they  were  saints'  bones.  A  piece 
of  linen  stained  with  walnut  juice  was  the  identical 
napkin  that  covered  the  dead  Saviour's  face.  Sleek- 
faced  churchmen  galloped  past  with  bags  of  pardons 
*'hot  from  Eome" — pardons  that  forgave  you  all  the 
sins  you  ever  had  committed  and  all  you  should  commit 
for  a  certain  time  in  the  future — all  this  for  a  consider- 
ation, of  course.  Astrologers  offered  to  tell  you  what 
your  *  ^fortune  star"  was,  and  alchemists  assured  you 
that  they  would  soon  discover  the  ''philosopher's  stone," 
the  element  that  would  turn  all  matter  into  gold.  These 
alchemists  were  men  of  mystery ;  they  spoke  and  wrote  a 
language  of  deep  and  hidden  meaning.  Hear  the  gold- 
producing  formula  of  the  fourteenth  century  alchemist, 
Armand  de  Yilleneuve : 

''Know,  my  son,  that  in  this  chapter  I  shall  teach 
thee  the  preparation  of  the  Philosophers'  Stone. 

''As  the  world  was  lost  through  woman,  it  is  neces- 
sary also  that  it  be  saved  by  her.  For  this  reason,  take 
the  mother,  place  her  in  bed  with  her  eight  sons ;  watch 
her ;  she  must  do  strict  penance  until  she  be  washed  of 
all  her  sins.     Then  she  will  give  to  the  world  a  son  who 

106 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

will  sin.  Signs  have  appeared  in  the  sun  and  moon; 
seize  this  son  and  chastise  him,  so  that  pride  may  not 
ruin  him.  This  done,  replace  him  in  his  bed  and  when 
thou  seest  that  he  is  in  his  right  mind  seize  him  again 
and  give  him  to  the  Jews  to  be  crucified.  The  Sun  be- 
ing thus  crucified,  the  Moon  will  no  longer  be  seen,  the 
veil  of  the  temple  rent,  and  there  will  be  a  great  earth- 
quake. Then  it  is  time  to  use  much  fire,  and  a  spirit 
that  shall  deceive  the  whole  world  will  be  seen  to 
arise.  "^ 

What  does  this  all  mean?  ''Take  the  mother. '* 
Take  mercury,  the  mother  of  all  metals;  place  her  in 
bed,  the  crucible,  with  her  eight  sons,  lead,  iron,  tin, 
etc. ;  watch  her  closely  till  all  has  melted.  She  will  give 
a  son  to  the  world  in  the  form  of  a  yellow  surface  or 
coating,  which  must  be  purified  into  true  gold.  The 
signs  in  the  sun  and  moon  are  the  colors  of  gold  and 
silver.  Grasping  the  gold  means  taking  the  gold  from 
the  crucible  and  chastising  or  beating  it.  Then,  hav- 
ing been  replaced  in  its  bed  and  having  regained  its 
senses  by  being  remelted,  it  is  given  to  the  Jews  by  being 
treated  with  niter  and  carbon.  Then  there  will  be  a 
great  disturbance  in  the  crucible  and  the  metallic  crust 
or  veil  will  be  rent,  and  by  the  use  of  much  fire  the  anti- 
mony will  give  forth  a  ''spirit"  in  the  form  of  scintil- 
lant  light.  This  spirit,  forming  a  mass  at  the  bottom 
of  the  vessel,  contains  the  gold. 

Against  such  quackery,  as  well  as  against  the  lustful 
lives  of  the  monks,  nuns,  and  pardon-selling  agents, 
Wickliffe  thundered  seemingly  in  vain.  His  followers, 
known  as  Lollards,  were  bitterly  persecuted  early  in  the 

1  Cosmos.    March  28,  1908. 

107 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

fifteenth  century,  and  the  universities,  siding  with  the 
traditional  views,  aided  in  such  persecution  and  stulti- 
fied themselves  by  requiring  rigid  conformity  among 
the  students.  Learning  sank ;  the  land  was  full  of  fool- 
ish teachers.  Physicians  without  a  degree  or  regular 
training  administered  violent  poisons  to  patients  or  to 
dummies  who  fortunately  sometimes  took  the  place  of 
the  sick  in  receiving  the  nostrums.  As  we  read  Chau- 
cer's Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales  we  are  apt  to 
wonder  if  the  nation  had  fallen  into  moral  rottenness. 
The  '^sumnour''  had  authority  over  the  girls  in  the 
parish  and  had  made  many  a  marriage  at  his  own  cost; 
the  reeve  became  rich  on  his  master's  money  and  then 
lent  the  bankrupt  nobleman  this  wealth  at  ruinous  in- 
terest; the  merchants  were  smugglers  and  sometimes 
pirates;  the  miller  had  a  ** golden  thumb"  in  taking 
toll;  the  monk  wore  a  love-knot,  and  the  nun  a  brooch 
with  the  inscription :     Amor  vincit  omnia. 

French  examples  had  not  greatly  changed  the  man- 
ners of  the  middle  and  low  classes.  Chaucer  notes  the 
remarkable  facts  that  the  nun  did  not  snatch  for  food 
at  the  table,  did  not  thrust  her  fingers  deep  into  the 
common  gravy  dish,  and  wiped  her  lip  so  clean  that  she 
left  no  skimming  of  grease  in  her  cup  when  she  drank. 
Under  the  table  the  dogs  gnawed  loudly  on  the  bones 
thrown  to  them  as  the  meal  progressed,  while  on  the 
backs  of  the  chairs  or  sometimes  on  the  table  falcons 
perched  and  snatched  at  the  bread.  The  jokes  and 
tales  were  often  most  vulgar ;  but  the  women  seem  to 
have  listened  without  protest. 

Secretly  at  all  times  there  was  great  discontent  among 
all  classes.    Henry  IV,  though  not  in  the  direct  line  of 

108 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

succession,  had  seized  the  throne  and  had  thus  aroused 
the  ire  of  a  number  of  the  aristocrats.  Henry  V  avoided 
trouble  at  home  by  causing  trouble  abroad.  The  great 
battle  of  Agincourt  occurred,  and  France  seemed  a  dying 
kingdom.  Then  came  Joan  of  Arc  and  lifted  once  more 
the  hopes  of  England's  ancient  enemy.  The  War  of 
the  Roses  followed  with  its  years  of  bloodshed,  and  the 
aristocratic  class  was  almost  annihilated.  Suffering  it 
undoubtedly  caused;  but  it  once  more  asserted  the  im- 
portance of  the  common  folk  and  destroyed  for  all  time 
the  iniquitous  feudal  system. 

But  looking  only  at  the  surface  of  society  in  those 
early  days,  one  would  never  have  judged  that  discon- 
tent was  wide-spread.  The  old  ballads,  now  at  the 
height  of  their  popularity,  were  heard  by  every  road- 
side; in  the  towns  the  mystery  and  miracle  plays  at- 
tracted the  multitude;  the  harp,  the  lute,  and  the  bag- 
pipe made  every  procession  gay.  Music  and  song  and 
story  were  as  popular  as  ever.  The  musicians  played  in 
the  castle  at  meal-time;  four  hundred  and  twenty-six 
of  them  performed  at  one  wedding  of  the  day;  the 
minstrels  were  still  so  important  that  in  the  fifteenth 
century  Parliament  condemned  them  as  the  cause  of  a 
Welsh  rebellion.  Their  songs  were  by  no  means  always 
uplifting.  With  the  jugglers  and  acrobats  they  some- 
times presented  the  Salome  dance  in  a  manner  that 
would  have  shocked  even  the  modern  metropolitan  au- 
dience, and  even  as  late  as  the  sixteenth  century  Phillip 
Stubbes  could  truthfully  say  in  his  Anatomy  of  Abuses: 
'*  Every  town,  citie,  and  country  is  full  of  these  min- 
strelles  to  pype  up  a  dance  to  the  devill."  Their  bal- 
lads and  narratives  frequently  had,  however,  a  demo- 

109 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

cratic  tone,  and  on  occasions  of  popular  political 
movements  they  undoubtedly  played  an  important  part 
in  voicing  the  sentiments  of  the  expressionless  multi- 
tude. Thus,  John  Ball  took  as  the  text  of  his  famous 
speech  at  Blackheath  in  1381  the  old  minstrel  song : 

When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span^ 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman? 

LITERARY   CONDITIONS 

After  the  death  of  Chaucer  the  era  was  not  exceed- 
ingly fruitful  in  literature;  it  was  a  time  of  rest  and 
waiting  before  the  coming  of  the  Renaissance.  We  shall 
see,  however,  that  fiction  still  had  its  numerous  devo- 
tees. None  of  them,  it  is  true,  could  tell  a  story  as 
Chaucer  could;  but  nearly  all  wrote  fairly  interesting 
if  not  strikingly  original  narratives. 

For  the  most  part,  the  same  old  romantic  themes  were 
being  worked  over  and  over,  becoming  more  tiresome 
and  more  stale  with  each  successive  revision.  Here  and 
there  such  geniuses  as  Malory  and  Caxton  added  a 
fresh  touch  of  art  to  the  ancient  themes;  but  in  the 
main  the  repeated  versions  were  scarcely  worth  the  tell- 
ing. So  far  adventure  had  been  the  principal  and  al- 
most the  only  element  in  fiction,  and  the  lesser  spirits 
of  the  age  still  failed  to  perceive  the  need  of  the  new 
element  soon  to  enter;  namely,  character  portrayal. 
**The  creations  of  romantic  fiction  were  unreal  beings 
distinguished  by  different  names,  by  the  different  in- 
signia of  their  shields,  and  by  the  degree  in  which  they 
possessed  the  special  qualities  which  formed  the  ideal 
of  medieval  times.    The  story  of  their  lives  was  but  a 

110 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

series  of  adventures  strung  together  without  plan,  the 
overflow  of  an  active  but  ungoverned  imagination. "  ^ 

A  few  men,  however,  as  has  been  indicated,  saw  the 
new  need  and  answered  it.  The  figures  in  Langland's 
Piers  Plonrman  frequently  act  like  real  men  and  women 
in  real  life;  the  jolly  company  that  Chaucer  led  to 
Canterbury  was  composed  of  living,  thinking  souls, 
human  mixtures  of  the  earthy  and  the  divine.  In- 
deed, the  Prologue  to  the  Canter'bury  Tales  is  one  of 
the  greatest  character  sketches  in  all  literature.  This 
was  truly  a  new  note  in  English  letters.  These  men 
and  women  do,  indeed,  tell  some  of  the  old-time  stories ; 
but  the  story-tellers  themselves  speak  with  the  modem 
spirit.  They  are  not  a  set  type;  there  is  friction  as 
well  as  fiction  in  the  group.  No  longer  are  the  knights 
and  the  warriors  bold  the  only  persons  worthy  of  con- 
sideration. The  preacher,  the  merchant,  the  scholar, 
the  lawyer,  the  merry  widow,  even  the  miller  and  the 
cook  are  brought  before  us  to  tell  of  life  from  their 
view-point. 

The  common  people  had  risen  through  the  expen- 
siveness  and  self-destructiveness  of  this  very  institution 
of  chivalry,  and  they  dared  to  scoff  openly  at  the  old 
idea  of  a  divinity's  resting  in  Arthurian  or  any  other 
kind  of  knights.  Robin  Hood  probably  was  more  to 
their  liking,  and  their  stories  were  frequently  tinged 
with  democracy  and  almost  with  rebellion.  Robin 
Hood  was  applauded  for  beating  fat,  avaricious  church- 
men, while  Langland  dared  to  condemn  those  of  the 
Church  and  State  who  used  their  power  to  oppress  the 
humble. 
2  Tuckennan:     History  of  English  Prose  Fiction,  p.  42. 

Ill 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Tales  of  wonder  were,  of  course,  still  welcome. 
''Friar  Bacon,"  possibly  founded  on  traditions  of  the 
philosopher,  Roger  Bacon,  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
made  a  brazen  head  which  could  talk,  and  he  had  in- 
tended to  put  a  wall  of  brass  about  England.  His 
servant,  Miles,  tried  to  imitate  him;  the  results  were 
ludicrous.  Yirgil  had  become  a  magician,  and  stories 
of  his  tricks  abounded.  By  black  art  he  put  out  the 
fire  of  Rome ;  he  made  a  lamp  that  would  burn  eternally. 
Even  with  so  great  a  figure,  however,  the  ridiculous  en- 
ters. In  love  with  a  Roman  lady,  he  persuades  her 
to  lower  a  basket  from  her  window  to  pull  him  up ;  but 
she — cruel  creature — leaves  him  suspended  half-way 
up,  to  be  the  object  of  the  city's  sarcastic  remarks. 
Tales  of  the  Nine  Worthies,  spoken  of  in  our  previous 
study,  still  held  their  popularity,  and  a  book  about  them 
appeared  from  Caxton's  press.  Stories  of  transforma- 
tion into  beasts  became  perhaps  more  numerous  than  in 
previous  centuries.  William  of  Palerne,  translated 
from  the  French  about  1350,  might  be  offered  as  a 
typical  example  of  this  theme.  The  werewolf  in  this 
tale,  heir  to  the  throne  of  Spain,  is  thus  transformed 
by  the  malicious  art  of  his  stepmother.  He  saves  a 
king  from  murder,  swims  with  him  across  the  Straits  of 
Messina,  helps  him  in  his  love  affairs,  and  is  rewarded 
by  having  the  charm  lifted  by  the  king's  intervention.  \_ 

Stories  of  devils  or  imps  were  still  retaining  an  audi- 
ence. ''Friar  Rush"  was  just  such  a  mischievous  ras- 
cal as  would  please  the  rustic  listeners  by  the  winter 
fireside.  He  gained  admittance  to  a  monastery,  threw 
the  master  cook  into  a  pot  of  boiling  water,  became 
chief  cook  himself;  prepared  such  delicious  food  that 

113 


FOUETEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

the  monks  were  fast  degenerating  into  gluttons,  and 
was  discovered  just  in  time  to  save  the  institution  from 
utter  ruin.  Indeed,  the  churchmen  still  made  zealous 
use  of  such  stories  of  the  devil  and  his  helpers.  It  was 
a  great  day  for  ''examples,"  as  any  reader  of  Chaucer 
and  Gower  knows.  Some  of  the  sermons  of  the  era 
were  but  groups  of  examples  or  tales  clinging  feebly  to 
a  text.  Robert  of  Brunne's  well-known  book,  Hand- 
lyng  Sinne,  has  throughout  its  12,600  lines  a  multitude 
of  just  such  stories  gathered  about  the  Seven  Deadly 
Sins;  Gower  did  not  disdain  proving  his  points  in  the 
same  manner  in  his  Confessio  Amantis,  A  specimen 
from  Handlyng  Sinne  may  be  enlightening.  Some  ruf- 
fians desecrating  the  churchyard  were  cursed  by  the 
abbot,  and,  having  paid  little  attention  to  His  Rever- 
ence, were  bewitched  so  that  they  were  compelled  to 
dance  unceasingly  in  rain,  snow,  or  heat  for  a  whole 
year.  The  Church  encouraged  such  rubbish.  The 
Ghost  of  Guy  (c.  1350),  a  tale  from  Latin  sources  and 
one  used  by  the  priests,  told  of  a  French  burgess  whose 
ghost  came  back  and  gave  marvelous  information  about 
Purgatory,  all  of  which  information  agreed,  of  course, 
with  the  teachings  of  the  Church.  Especially  did  this 
ghost  declare  that  it  could  be  saved  from  Hell  by 
masses.  The  Child  of  Bristow  relates  how  a  covetous 
father  was  saved  from  the  same  permanent  and  uncom- 
fortable residence  by  his  son's  returning  the  ill-gotten 
wealth,  and  having  masses  said. 

By  1400  innumerable  narratives  from  the  East  had 

reached  England.     The  Story  of  the  Seven  Sages  or  the 

Seven  Wise  Masters,  for  instance,  was  widely  known 

among  even  the  common  audiences.     Here,  the  son  of  a 

8  113 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

king  having  been  placed  under  the  instruction  of  the 
wise  men,  they  discover  by  magic  that  the  boy's  life  is 
in  danger  and  that  his  only  hope  lies  in  his  being  ab- 
solutely silent  for  a  certain  time.  The  boy,  sent  home, 
enrages  his  father  by  his  refusal  to  talk.  One  of  the 
queens  then  makes  love  to  him;  he  reproaches  her  bit- 
terly and  is  silent  again ;  the  woman  declares  him  guilty 
of  making  insulting  proposals  to  her ;  the  king  resolves 
to  execute  him.  Then  the  philosophers  enter  and  tell 
stories  containing  warnings  against  hasty  punishment; 
the  king  tells  one  in  reply  to  each  of  these;  in  some 
versions  the  queen  takes  a  hand  in  the  narrating,  and 
thus  the  tales  and  '* examples"  merrily  accumulate,  and 
the  boy  lives  on. 

The  Gesta  Bomanorum,  a  treasure  store  for  medieval 
story-tellers,  came  into  existence,  in  England  at  least, 
toward  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Many  in- 
deed were  the  copies  of  it  scattered  throughout  Great 
Britain ;  its  popularity  was  scarcely  equaled  by  that  of 
any  other  writing  of  the  following  hundred  years. 

Looking  over  the  chapters  of  the  English  version,  we 
discover  a  mixture  of  feudal  chivalry  and  Oriental  ex- 
travagance. Here  we  find  King  Lear  in  his  Northern 
loneliness,  here  the  Shylock  plot  with  its  Southern 
cunning,  here  classical  heroes,  untrue  to  history  but 
exceedingly  interesting  ss  figures  of  fiction.  Originally 
intended  for  the  use  of  the  clergy  as  further  *' exam- 
ples,'' the  stories  generally  close  with  a  plain  but  rather 
irrelevant  moral.  One  might  truthfully  revise  the  old 
saying  so  as  to  state  that  if  the  story  had  the  smallpox 
there  would  not  be  the  least  need  of  vaccinating  the 
moral.    Indeed,  it  is  at  times  a  triumph  of  human  in- 

114 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

genuity — this  grafting  a  lesson  upon  such  an  entirely 
different  tale.  A  man  finds  his  neighbor  weeping. 
When  asked  the  cause  of  his  tears,  the  neighbor  replies 
that  each  of  his  three  successive  wives  had  hanged  her- 
self on  a  certain  tree  in  the  garden.  Instantly  the 
visitor  eagerly  begs  a  sprig  of  that  tree  to  plant  before 
his  own  house,  and  frantically  urges  the  widower  to 
distribute  slips  of  it  throughout  the  entire  neighbor- 
hood that  all  the  unlucky  married  men  may  gain  free- 
dom or  new  wives.  The  tree,  **my  brethren,"  is  the 
cross  on  which  you  are  to  hang  and  destroy  the  three 
sinful  wives,  Pride,  Lust,  and  Covetousness.  Of  course 
the  preacher  could  change  the  names  of  the  wives  to 
suit  the  particular  vices  of  his  parish. 

Some  of  the  stories  have  the  weird  effect  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  A  merchant,  entertained  at  a  noble- 
man's house,  is  enraptured  with  the  beauty  of  the  wife. 
To  his  consternation,  he  finds  at  supper  that,  though 
the  others  seated  at  the  table  are  given  rich  food  on 
golden  plates,  the  lady  has  but  a  bit  of  coarse  meat 
served  in  a  human  skull.  When  he  is  taken  to  his  room, 
he  discovers  in  a  comer  two  dead  bodies  suspended  by 
their  arms.  The  next  morning  the  nobleman  explains 
that  the  skull  is  the  head  of  a  duke  who  had  been  dis- 
covered in  the  wife's  embraces;  he  compelled  her  to  eat 
from  it  to  teach  her  modesty  and  faithfulness.  The 
bodies  in  the  bedroom  were  those  of  two  kinsmen  who 
had  been  murdered,  and  these  he  visited  daily  to  keep 
burning  his  desire  for  vengeance.  Still  another  speci- 
men of  the  weird  quality  may  be  helpful.  A  Roman 
statue,  which  stretched  forth  its  middle  finger,  bore  the 
inscription,  ''Strike  here."    A  clerk  one  day  discovered 

115 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  shadow  of  the  finger  at  some  distance,  dug  into  the 
earth  at  this  point,  found  a  flight  of  stairs,  and,  going 
far  down,  came  upon  a  king  and  queen  seated  in  a 
great  hall.  The  couple  neither  spoke  nor  noticed  him. 
In  one  corner  he  saw  a  huge  carbuncle,  in  another  a  man 
with  a  bended  bow.  On  this  silent  archer's  forehead 
were  the  words:  *^I  am  what  I  am;  nothing  can  escape 
my  dart,  not  even  yonder  carbuncle  which  shines  so 
bright."  In  another  room  the  clerk  found  beautiful 
women  weaving;  but  these  also  spoke  not  a  word.  In 
the  stable  were  splendid  horses,  but  when  he  touched 
them  they  turned  to  stone.  The  young  man,  deeming 
it  best  to  have  some  proof  to  take  back  to  earth,  took 
from  a  table  a  golden  cup  and  a  golden  knife.  That 
instant  the  bow  shot;  the  carbuncle  was  shattered;  all 
was  darkness;  and  the  clerk,  dismayed  and  lost,  wan- 
dered hither  and  thither  through  the  great  cavern  until 
death  overcame  him. 

All  such  stories  possessed,  of  course,  their  religious 
bearing,  and  most  of  the  other  long  collections  were 
written  or  edited  for  the  same  purpose.  The  Cursor 
Mundi,  an  immense  series  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
wrought  out  at  times  a  symbolism  marvelous  in  its  in- 
genuity. The  cross,  for  example,  was  made  of  three 
trees,  the  cypress,  the  cedar  and  the  pine,  which  had 
grown  from  three  pips  given  Seth  by  the  guardian 
angel  of  Heaven  and  placed  under  Adam's  tongue 
when  this  father  of  man  was  buried.  These  same  three 
trees  had  had  a  part  in  the  building  of  the  Temple; 
they  had  made  their  influence  felt  through  all  Hebrew 
history.    Religion  was  an  extremely  live  subject  at  the 

116 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

time,  though  the  carelessness  of  the  lower  classes  might 
cause  us  to  believe  the  contrary. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  romance  died  quickly 
during  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  century.  Indeed 
more  stories  of  the  romantic  type  were  revised,  copied, 
or  reedited  than  in  any  other  period  of  English  liter- 
ature. This  was  the  day  of  Malory,  whose  Morte  d' Ar- 
thur, issued  by  Caxton,  is  a  conclusive  evidence  of  the 
abiding  popularity  of  such  narratives.  But  very  few 
new  stories  of  this  kind  were  being  composed.  William 
of  Palerne,  of  about  1350,  Morte  Arthure,  of  the  late 
fourteenth  century,  Arthur  of  Little  Britain,  Paris  and 
Vienne,  Valentine  and  Orson,  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green 
Knight — such  romances  containing  much  of  the  old 
aud  little  of  the  new,  gained  an  audience  and  held  it 
even  into  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  author  of  Cursor  Mundi  was  doubtless  correct 
when  he  wrote  early  in  the  fourteenth  century: 

Men  lykyn  jestis  for  to  here 
And  remans  rede  in  divers  manere 
Of  Alexandre  the  conqueroure. 
Of  Julius  Cesar  the  emperoure. 
Of  Grece  and  Troy,  the  strong  stryf. 
There  many  a  man  lost  his  lyf, 
Of  Brute  that  baron  bold  of  bond. 
The  first  Conqueroure  of  Englond, 
Of  King  Artour, 

and  a  host  of  others.  But  the  fact  remains  that  in  spite 
of  the  interest  still  felt  in  these  old  stories, 

The  twilight  that  surrounds 
The  borderland  of  old  romance 

117 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

was  passing  away;  such  themes  were  being  brought 
under  the  searching  light  of  a  more  intellectual  day,  and 
were  being  found  lacking  in  reality,  in  human  charac- 
ter. 

Fiction  was  now  beginning  to  break  through  the  nar- 
row channel  of  verse.  The  poetical  romance  had  already 
given  way  in  Italy  to  the  prose  romance,  and  soon  after 
Boccaccio  had  set  the  example,  numerous  novellieri, 
writers  of  prose  tales,  came  into  the  greatly  broadened 
and  promising  field — ^men  such  as  Cinthio,  Bandello  and 
Strap arola,  whose  work  became  well  known  in  England 
and  was  copied  later  into  such  collections  as  Painter's 
Palace  of  Pleasure.  The  influence  of  Italian  fiction 
upon  English  fiction  from  this  time  forth  can  scarcely 
be  overestiinated.  Boccaccio's  books — such  collections 
as  his  Casihus  Virorum  et  Feminarum  Illustrium,  his 
De  Claris  Mulieribus,  and  later  his  Decameron,  became 
famous  throughout  Europe  and  were  eagerly  read  in 
Great  Britain.  Chaucer's  Monh^s  Tale  and  Legend  of 
Good  Women  were  modeled  upon  them;  Lydgate's 
Falls  of  Princes  imitated  the  Casihus;  Gower,  Barbour, 
Occleve  and  many  other  minor  writers  were  under  ob- 
ligations to  this  highly  original  Italian.  Pulci,  Boiardo, 
Ariosto,  and  Tasso  began  to  be  known,  appreciated,  and 
imitated  in  the  Northern  country.  '^ These,"  says  God- 
win in  his  Life  of  Chaucer,  ''were  the  tales  with  which 
the  youthful  fancy  of  Chaucer  was  fed;  these  were  the 
visionary  scenes  by  which  his  genius  was  awakened; 
these  were  the  acts  and  personages  on  which  his  boyish 
thoughts  were  at  liberty  to  ruminate  forever." 


118 


li 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

™  CHAUCER 

The  work  of  this  man,  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  was  the  re- 
sult of  centuries  of  English  story-telling.  The  love  of 
fiction  was  in  his  blood;  his  day  called  eagerly  for  nar- 
rative; circumstances  made  story-telling  his  life's  chief 
activity.  Born  in  London  about  1340,  the  son  of  a 
wine-merchant,  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  enter  the 
service  of  Prince  Lionel  and  to  advance  from  plane  to 
plane  until  he  became  intimate  with  the  highest  royalty 
of  the  land.  Thus  he  came  to  know  English  society  in 
its  every  stage  and  phase,  and  no  man  knew  better  how 
to  judge  his  audience  and  fit  his  story  to  their  level  of 
understanding.  While  a  mere  boy,  he  was  taken  pris- 
oner in  France,  and  was  even  then  deemed  valuable 
enough  to  warrant  the  king's  payment  of  no  small  ran- 
som. Valet  and  squire  to  Edward  III,  special  agent 
to  Italy  at  least  twice,  supervisor  of  customs  at  London 
from  1381  to  1386,  a  member  of  Parliament  in  1386,  in 
charge  of  the  King's  Works  in  1389,  frequently  the  re- 
cipient of  pensions,  gifts,  and  other  royal  favors,  trav- 
eler, student,  close  observer,  man  of  both  the  world  and 
the  library,  he  probably  stood  intellectually  the  peer  of 
any  Englishman  before  Elizabethan  days  and  the  su- 
perior of  any  other  writer  of  the  fourteenth  century  in 
genius  and  genuine  understanding  of  humanity. 

Consider  the  scope  and  the  variety  of  his  Canterbury 
Tales:  the  Tale  of  the  Knight,  a  story  of  Palamon  and 
Arcite,  derived  from  Boccaccio's  Teseide;  the  Tale  of 
the  Miller,  a  story  of  Absolon,  Nicholas,  and  Alisoun,  a 
carpenter's  wife,  the  plot  of  unknown  source;  the 
Reeve's  Tale,  imitating  a  French  fabliau;  the  Man  of 

119 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Law's  Tale,  a  history  of  the  pious  Constance,  from  the 
French  of  Trivet;  the  SJiipman's  Tale,  a  story  from 
Decameron,  of  a  merchant,  a  wife  and  a  wicked  monk; 
the  Prioress'  Tale  from  the  French  of  Gautier  de  Co- 
inci,  telling  how  a  child  was  killed  by  the  Jews;  the 
Monk's  Tale,  presenting  the  'Hragedies"  of  Lucifer, 
Adam,  Samson,  Hercules,  Nebuchadnezzar,  Nero, 
Caesar,  etc.;  the  Nun's  Priest's  Tale,  the  story  of 
Chanticleer,  found  in  Roman  de  Renart  and  in  the 
writings  of  Marie  de  France.  This  is  but  a  glimpse  at 
the  contents  and  sources  of  the  great  collection.  Here 
are  plots  and  characters  enough  for  any  number  of 
modern  novels.  One  hardly  knows  where  to  begin  in 
this  treasure-picture.  Perhaps,  however,  it  would  be 
wise  simply  to  describe  briefly  two  or  three  of  the  tales 
that  pleased  the  pilgrims  and  show  how  they  differ  from 
the  form  of  narrative  preceding  them  and  what  they 
foretell  for  English  fiction. 

The  Pardoner's  Tale  might  be  cited  as  an  example 
of  the  mingling  of  the  old  and  the  new  in  Chaucer. 
Here  we  have  a  story  that  could  easily  have  served  as 
a  plot  for  one  of  the  morality  plays  of  the  day.  Sim- 
ple, unadorned,  almost  grotesque  in  its  childlike  frank- 
ness, gruesome  in  its  details  and  general  lesson,  it  pos- 
sesses at  the  same  time  that  chief  asset  of  modern 
fiction — characterization.  The  figures  in  it  are  not  of 
the  same  class  as  those  of  the  old  romances;  they  are 
not  mere  types ;  they  are  living,  plausible  human  beings. 
Three  wicked  topers  swear  to  overcome  Death,  and,  go- 
ing forth  to  seek  him,  meet  an  old  man  who  tells  them 
that  he  has  just  seen  Death  up  yonder  lane.  The 
cronies,  going  there,  find  a  heap  of  treasures,  and,  re- 

120 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

joicing  over  their  discovery,  they  decide  that  the 
youngest  companion  shall  go  back  to  town  and  secure 
some  wine  while  the  other  two  guard  the  riches.  The 
youngest  resolves  to  rid  himself  of  his  partners  and 
therefore  puts  poison  into  the  wine,  while  at  the  same 
time  the  other  two  resolve  to  waylay  and  murder  him 
as  he  returns.  This  they  do,  and  then,  gloating  over 
their  wealth,  they  drink  the  wine  and  sink  down  in 
death.  Thus,  indeed,  did  they  all  meet  Death,  as  the 
old  man  had  promised  them. 

This  has,  in  truth,  the  medieval  religious  tone.  A 
spiritual  lesson  is  taught  with  vivid,  almost  brutal,  sim- 
plicity. Yet,  the  talk,  the  thoughts,  the  descriptions, 
the  deeds  of  the  four  or  five  characters  give  them  a 
**humanness"  that  causes  them  to  stand  forth  as  dis- 
tinct individuals  on  a  real  and  very  earthy  earth. 
Then,  too,  the  pardoner  who  tells  this  story  is  none  of 
'*ye  olden  knights'';  he  is  decidedly  up-to-date,  in 
short,  a  rascal.  Doubtless  as  he  told  the  tale,  he  as- 
sumed at  times  the  solemn,  singsong  air  of  the  sermons 
of  the  day,  and  doubtless,  too,  the  moral  he  derived 
from  the  narrative  was  not  to  seek  treasures  for  oneself, 
but  to  give  them  to  churchmen,  especially  poor  par- 
doners. He  displays  his  fake  relics;  he  hints  of  their 
power;  he  is  an  abominable  knave.  But  it  is  his  busi- 
ness to  tell  moral  tales  so  well  that  the  listener's  soul 
will  be  shaken  with  fear  and  his  pocketbook  emptied 
into  the  churchman's  hand.  It  is  an  impressive  nar- 
rative, gruesome  in  its  incidents,  strong  in  its  portrayal, 
realistic  as  the  most  modern  realist  could  desire.  It  is 
a  far  cry  from  this  to  the  old  love  romances  of  the 
Round  Table. 

121 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  Nun^s  Priest's  Tale,  though  dealing  with  a  theme 
older  by  far  than  the  Arthurian  Legend,  has  all  the 
sprightliness,  naturalness  of  manner  and  conversation, 
and  distinction  of  characters  that  one  could  expect  in  a 
modem  short  story.  It  deals  with  the  ancient  feud 
between  the  fox  and  the  cock,  always  enemies,  always 
tricking  each  other.  The  JEsopian  fables  with  their  in- 
evitable moral  had  penetrated  every  nook  and  corner 
of  civilized  Europe;  the  animal  epic,  such  as  Reynard 
the  Fox,  had  enlarged  from  age  to  age;  and  Chaucer 
was  but  answering  a  popular  craving  when  he  told  with 
such  humorous  and  human  touches  the  troubles  of  the 
ancient  foes. 

The  cock  had  lived  in  happiness  under  the  favor, 
care,  and  admiration  of  his  seven  wives ;  food  was  plen- 
tiful; there  was  no  danger;  chanticleer's  voice  shook 
the  morning  air.  At  length,  however,  evil  dreams  of 
a  strange  monster  began  to  come  to  the  husband.  He 
shivered  and  cried  out  in  his  sleep,  and  nestled  closer 
to  his  favorite  wife.  When  he  told  her  of  his  dreams 
she  was  all  anxiety;  surely  his  liver  was  out  of  order, 
and  she  must  prepare  him  some  medicine  at  once.  She 
scoffed  at  his  superstitious  belief  in  dreams,  and  de- 
clared that  she  could  never  love  a  coward;  but  he,  on 
his  part,  maintained  with  proper  masculine  dignity  the 
significance  of  such  visions,  and  silenced  her  by  quoting 
numerous  ancient  and  eminent  authorities. 

Macrobeus  that  writ  th'  avisioun 
In  Affrike  of  the  worthy  Cipioun, 
Affermeth  dremes,  and  seith  that  they  been 
Warning  of  things  that  men  after  seen. 
And  forther-more,  I  pray  you  loketh  wel 
122 


li 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

In  th'  olde  testament,  of  Daniel, 

If  he  held  dremes  any  vanitee. 

Reed  eke  of  Joseph  and  ther  shul  ye  see 

Where  dremes  ben  somtyne  (I  say  not  alle) 

Warning  of  things  that  shul  after  falle. 

In  time  the  dream  came  true.  The  strange  monster, 
the  fox,  appeared  and  captured  him,  and  only  by  the 
merest  chance  did  he  escape  death.  The  moral  is,  of 
course,  that  man  should  never  heed  woman's  advice. 

This  is  a  little  cameo  of  lowly  life.  How  many  hu- 
man touches  are  found  in  this  story  of  the  barnyard: 
the  dignified  masculine  superiority  of  the  rooster,  the 
feminine  materialism  (if  gallantry,  permit  me  to  say  it) 
of  the  hen,  the  love  and  anxiety  of  it  all,  the  sweetness 
of  domestic  life,  the  charm  of  handsome  manhood  for 
beautiful  womanhood.  These  ideas — except  the  last — 
are  so  exceedingly  rare  in  previous  literature.  This, 
again,  in  its  realism  is  a  far  step  from  the  conventional 
form  of  the  old  romances.  Chaucer's  feelings  are  al- 
ways with  his  heroes,  but  he  never  becomes  so  enamored 
with  them  as  to  make  them  superhuman.  The  touch  of 
humor  is  always  close  at  hand.  This  comparison  of 
great  heroes  and  deeds  to  the  petty  creatures  and  do- 
ings of  the  barnyard — the  classic  gods  and  goddesses  to 
chanticleer  and  his  hens — ^is  too  ludicrous  to  miss  ap- 
preciation. The  solemn  display  of  learning  by  the  cock, 
his  citations  from  ancient  history  and  biography,  his 
knowledge  of  modem  legends  and  literature,  his  famili- 
arity with  Biblical  lore, — these  bits  of  absurdity  give 
the  tale  a  piquancy  not  known  in  earlier  English  fiction. 
With  it  all  goes  a  plot  skilfully  arranged  and  leading 
unerringly  to  the  climax,  and,  unlike  the  romance  upon 

123 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

which  Chaucer's  boyhood  was  fed,  it  ends  when  it  ought 
to  end. 

Those  romances  of  his  boyhood — ^none  knew  better 
than  Chaucer  the  defects  of  their  construction.  The 
Tale  of  Sir  Thopas  was  one  of  the  most  effective  blows 
ever  given  them  in  English  literature.  Here  the  story- 
teller begins  the  same  old  account  of  chivalrous  adven- 
tures. The  knight  rides  through  the  forest,  and  at 
length,  having  dismounted  to  rest,  he  has  the  usual 
dream:  an  elf  queen  is  to  be  his  wife.  Then  he  finds 
himself  in  fairy-land ;  he  is  met  by  a  giant,  but  escapes ; 
adorned  with  a  lily  as  a  symbol  of  his  purity,  he  speeds 
back  to  meet  the  giant.  Just  here  the  host  stops  the  tale 
with  an  outburst  of  disgust. 

No  more  of  this,  for  goddes  dignitee," 
Quod  oure  hoste,  "for  thou  makest  me 
So  wery  of  thy  verray  lewednesse 
That,  also  wisely  god  my  soule  blesse, 
Mya  eres  aken  of  thy  drasty  speches! 

We  feel  like  saying,  ^^Amen."  There  is  no  telling 
when  and  where  that  story  might  have  stopped.  All 
the  giants  and  knights  and  fairy  ladies  in  romance-land 
might  have  been  brought  in,  and  perhaps  the  arrival 
at  Thomas  a  Becket's  shrine  might  have  been  but  an  in- 
terruption and  not  its  end. 

The  fact  that  not  a  lettered  man,  such  as  the  clerk  of 
Oxford,  but  a  rough,  unlearned  man  of  the  world,  like 
the  innkeeper,  objected,  was  proof  that  the  common 
folk  were  growing  weary  of  this  old  style  of  narrative. 
The  trouveres  had  failed;  their  incoherent,  hackneyed j 
plots  had  fallen  short  of  all  effectiveness;  and  the  peo-j 
pie  demanded  something  having  more  likeness  to  ihej 

124 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

men  and  women  who  lived  and  thought  and  did  enough 
deeds  for  seventy  years  and  then  died.  Human  char- 
acter and  analysis  of  human  character — that  was  the 
new  cry;  never  again  could  mere  adventure  long  prove 
sufficient. 

It  must  not  be  thought,  however,  that  Chaucer  could 
not  use  the  old  themes.  The  Knight's  Tale  is  as  truly 
a  romance  of  chivalry  as  any  portion  of  Malory 's  Morte 
d' Arthur;  while  Troylus  and  Criseyde,  dealing  with  a 
plot  used  scores  of  times  by  early  romancers,  became  in 
this  Englishman's  hands  one  of  the  most  artistic,  beauti- 
ful, and,  at  the  same  time,  convincing  stories  in  all  the 
world's  literature.  Why  did  it  become  so?  Because 
Chaucer  realizes  that  the  emotions  of  no  two  human 
souls  are  exactly  the  same,  and  he  proceeds  to  give  such 
an  analysis  of  characters-  as  English  literature  had  never 
seen  before.  Here  is  no  mere  external  description  of 
man  and  woman;  the  human  heart  and  its  workings 
are  laid  bare  before  us ;  we  are  made  aware  of  the  com- 
plexity of  human  existence.  In  this  story  of  the  ten- 
der-hearted, weak-willed  Criseyde  we  find  a  new  reali- 
zation of  the  depths  and  meanings  of  life, — a  realization 
that  seems  never  to  have  come  to  those  innumerable 
poets  before  Chaucer  who  told  of  knights  bold  and 
ladies  fair.  To  Chaucer  *Hhe  world  and  human  char- 
acter are  no  simple  things,  nor  are  actions  to  be  judged 
as  the  fruit  of  one  motive  alone."  He  has  gained  an 
insight  into  that  which  was  practically  unknown  to  his 
predecessors — human  psychology.  In  his  stories  giants 
are  not  all  bad  nor  knights  all  good.  The  souls  he  lays 
bare  are  the  true  mixture  of  earth  and  spirit.  We  have 
passed  from  conventionalities  to  individualism;  **none 

125 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

else  of  that  day  can  bring  the  actual  world  of  men  and 
women  before  us  with  the  movement  of  a  Florentine 
procession-picture  and  with  a  color  and  a  truth  of  detail 
that  anticipate  the  great  Dutch  masters  of  painting. ' '  ^ 

The  poem,  Troylus  and  Criseyde,  might  almost  be 
cited  as  the  first  English  novel.  Its  story  is  full  of  in- 
cidents; but  it  is  not  mastered  by  them.  Character 
makes  its  plot,  and  not  plot  the  characters.  '*The  mo- 
tions of  the  human  heart,  that  is  his  real  subject,  not  the 
march  of  armies ;  from  the  moment  of  its  birth  the  Eng- 
lish novel  is  psychological.''* 

This  is  the  chief  importance,  then,  of  Chaucer  in  the 
development  of  English  fiction.  Writers  before  him 
had  observed  mainly  the  deeds  of  men ;  he  observed  the 
motives,  the  thoughts,  the  soul-conflicts  of  humanity. 
Never  again  can  the  type  figure  gain  supremacy  in 
narrative;  every  character  must  be  an  individual  pos- 
sessing his  own  peculiar  traits,  personal  eccentricities, 
and  particular  views  of  life.  All  this  means  another 
excellent  trait — limits  to  a  narrative.  Mere  adven- 
tures— battles,  hunts,  discoveries — might  go  on  for- 
ever or  as  long  as  the  writer's  inventive  power  lasts; 
but  crises  in  the  human  soul  are  happily  of  short  dura- 
tion ;  they  must  at  length  end,  and  with  them  the  story. 
Eeasonable  limitations  to  plot,  naturalness,  the  study 
of  motives,  analysis  of  the  heart,  psychology — these  are 
Chaucer's  chief  gifts  to  English  fiction. 

3  Ward:     English  Poets,  Vol.  I,  p.  11. 

4  Jusserand:     Lit,  Hist,  of  the  English  People,  Vol-  I,  p.  303. 


126 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

LANGIiAND 

There  was  living  in  the  same  London  with  Chaucer 
a  writer  whom  he  never  met,  but  who  he  would  have 
admitted  possessed  an  unusual  power  in  character  por- 
trayal. That  man  was  a  churchman,  long,  gaunt, 
hungry-looking,  gloomy,  proud  William  Langland,  the 
author  of  the  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman  (c.  1362).  Lit- 
tle enough  is  known  of  Langland 's  life.  It  is  believed 
that  he  was  born  in  Shrewsbury  near  the  Welsh  border, 
about  1331,  and  was  of  such  low  family  that  he  escaped 
bondage  only  through  the  patronage  of  some  man  of 
high  rank.  He  probably  attended  school  at  Malvern, 
and  his  residence  alternated  between  this  place  and 
London  during  his  mature  years.  He  was  never  a  sys- 
tematic scholar — Jusserand  calls  him  a  '*  vagabond  by 
nature,  both  mentally  and  physically" — but  he  man- 
aged to  pick  up  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  of  knowledge, 
and  during  his  struggle  for  existence,  learned  with  bitter 
accuracy  the  traits  of  humanity.  A  disappointed  man 
— one  who  failed  probably  because  he  lacked  will-power 
and  concentration — he  labored  for  his  bread  by  praying 
and  singing  in  one  of  the  numerous  chantries  established 
for  saving  the  souls  of  dead  sinners.  This  monotonous 
performance  of  the  same  old  rites  day  after  day  for  a 
soul  in  which  he  perhaps  had  no  mortal  interest  was  a 
dreary  enough  business;  but  in  addition  his  poverty, 
his  unhappy  marriage,  and  his  thwarted  ambition  must 
at  times  have  made  the  haughty  figure  in  the  tattered 
gown  a  half -crazed  being. 

The  story  was  at  first  but  a  vision  about  a  common 
folk's  leader.   Piers  Plowman;   but  this  was  enlarged 

127 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

a  number  of  times  and  an  appendix  given,  dealing  with 
Do  Well,  Do  Bet,  and  Do  Best.  At  least  three  distinct 
versions,  known  to-day  as  A  (1362),  B  (1367),  and 
C  (1398),  were  evolved.  The  three  versions  together 
compose  one  of  the  most  voluminous,  vivid,  and  detailed 
sociological  studies  in  early  literature,  and  evidently 
their  truth  and  value  were  recognized  in  the  author's 
own  day,  as  more  than  forty  manuscripts  of  the  poem 
have  been  found. 

The  author  sleeps  and  has  a  vision.  The  folk  of  this 
world,  assembled  in  a  field,  are  about  to  start  on  a 
journey  in  search  of  Truth  and  Supreme  Good.  A  lady. 
Holy  Church,  points  out  in  the  distance  the  Tower  of 
Truth  and  also  the  Castle  of  Care,  where  Wrong  dwells. 
She  explains  to  the  leaderless  army  how  man  should 
live.  Lady  Meed  is  there,  a  beautiful  lady  represent- 
ing reward  or  bribery,  without  which  few  deeds  are 
undertaken.  She  is  to  be  married  to  Fals  (Falsehood), 
and  the  couple  will  dwell  in  the  Earldom  of  Envy. 
Some  of  the  company  oppose  such  a  union,  however, 
and  the  wedding  group  go  to  Westminster  to  have  the 
dispute  settled.  The  king  decides  to  marry  her  to  a 
knight.  Conscience ;  but  the  knight  refuses,  and  reveals 
her  evil  ways.  She  gives  high  positions  to  knaves  and 
fools;  Conscience  will  have  none  of  her.  Lady  Meed 
uses  the  usual  defense  of  woman — ^tears — and  then  ex- 
plains her  usefulness,  proving  that  the  work  of  the 
world  is  done  because  of  her.  The  knight  explains  that 
there  are  two  Meeds — Eeward  and  Bribery — and  that  i 
the  world  has  confused  them.  Then  Meed  is  ** wroth, 
as  the  wynde.'*  Reason  is  sent  for  to  judge  the  argu- 
ments.   Now,  however,  another  friction  arises;  Peace 

128 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

presents  a  petition  against  Wrong,  who  has  robbes^  the 
poor  and  deceived  women. 

The  scene  shifts  often  and  abruptly.  Reason  now 
appears  before  the  whole  nation  in  the  field  and  makes 
a  speech.  The  priest,  Repentance,  hears  the  confession 
of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  who,  though  supposed  to  be 
mere  abstractions,  are  depicted  with  such  vividness  as 
to  become  living  personages.  These  Sins  may  really  be 
converted ;  but  they  must  also  seek  Truth  in  order  that 
their  repentance  may  be  perfect.  Then  appears  Piers 
Plowman,  a  simple-hearted,  uneducated  peasant  who 
shall  show  them  and  all  the  people  the  way  to  this 
Truth.  Go  through  Meekness,  he  commands  them, 
until  they  come  to  Conscience,  cross  the  stream  called 
Be-buxom-of-speech  by  the  ford  named  Honour-your- 
fathers,  pass  by  Swear-not-in-vain  and  Covet-not,  and 
the  stocks  called  Steal-not,  and  Slay-not,  turn  aside 
from  the  hill,  Bear-no-false-witness,  and  then  shall  they 
see  a  court  with  walls  of  Wit  and  battlements  of  Chris- 
tendom, containing  houses  roofed  with  Love-as-breth- 
ren.  Grace  and  Amend-you  keep  the  gate;  they  will 
admit  the  pilgrims  on  the  plea  of  the  seven  sisters. 
Abstinence,  Humility,  Charity,  Chastity,  Patience, 
Peace,  and  Bounty. 

Yet  another  vision — ^the  dream  of  Do  Well,  Do  Bet, 
and  Do  Best.  This  portion  is  composed  mostly  of 
strong,  energetic  sermons  mingled  with  vivid  pictures, 
such  as  Christ's  struggles  with  the  devil  and  the  Har- 
rowing of  Hell.  Then  Langland  is  awakened  on  the 
Malvern  Hills  by  the  bells  of  Easter  morning.  The 
poem  draws  to  a  close  with  a  thought  of  death.  The 
poet  would  know  how  to  spend  most  usefully  the  few 
a  129 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

days  remaining  to  him.     Nature  replies,   '^Learne  to 
love";  that  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  all  good. 

No  plot  here;  not  even  a  plan;  it  is  but  a  confused, 
impetuous,  fierce  outburst  against  the  evils  of  the  day. 
As  has  been  said,  the  story  leaps  from  scene  to  scene; 
few  lead  into  those  following.  It  makes  no  great  dif- 
ference, however.  Sincerity  goes  a  long  way  in  art  and 
literature,  and  this  trait  enables  the  bitter-hearted 
Langland  to  portray  situations,  scenes,  and  characters 
that  are  not  easily  forgotten.  There  are,  in  truth, 
flashes  of  genius — unconscious  flashes;  for  the  gaunt, 
half-starved  poet  had  gotten  beyond  the  point  where 
he  cared  to  shine;  his  whole  desire  was  to  show  how 
totally  the  world  was  out  of  joint.  His  is  indeed  *'a 
woful  and  terrible  laugh,  harbinger  of  the  final  catas- 
trophe and  doom."  He  is  English  and  Anglo-Saxon 
to  the  core.  He  is  bluntly  honest  and  old-fashioned. 
He  prefers  the  ancient  alliteration  to  the  new-fangled 
riming  verse.  He  chooses  the  time-honored  ^Wision" 
and  allegory  as  the  form  for  his  preachment,  and  that 
preachment  is  far  more  important  than  any  subtlety 
of  plot  or  finish  of  diction.  In  his  way  he  is  a  sociolo- 
gist, just  as  Chaucer  is ;  but  while  Chaucer  smiles,  Lang- 
land  snarls.  Both  place  before  us  the  actual  life  and 
opinions  of  the  times;  but  Langland  gives  in  addition 
the  common  people's  plea.  Chaucer  speaks  about  the 
lowly;  Langland  speaks  from  among  them.  It  is  a 
rugged  story — rejecting  rime,  full  of  abnormal,  noisy, 
ill-shapen  words,  purposely  made  jarring — vivid,  stern, 
uncompromising,  huge,  and,  above  all,  sincere  and  effect- 
ive. It  was  the  voice  of  the  common  folk — the  fiction 
that  portrayed  their  life,  their  sufferings,  their  ideals. 

130 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

I  have  said  that  Langland  was  truly  English.  He 
believed  in  England  for  the  English.  He  believed  in 
the  Pope  as  long  as  the  Pope  kept  his  finger  out  of 
British  affairs;  he  disliked  foreigners  and  pompous 
churchmen.  He  was  practically  Protestant  and  almost 
Puritanical.  Unlike  Chaucer,  who  could  smile  at  the 
follies  of  the  day,  he  had  a  true  Anglo-Saxon  hatred 
for  any  form  of  deception.  This  necessarily  prevented 
his  giving  the  full,  rounded  view  of  life  found  in  Chau- 
cer's fiction;  on  the  other  hand,  it  sometimes  enabled 
him  to  show,  as  the  more  prosperous  poet  never  could, 
the  sujffering,  tyranny,  and  pathos  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. His  figures  frequently  remind  us  of  the  blind  seek- 
ing the  light,  of  the  voice  of  the  lost  and  bewildered 
calling  for  help;  Chaucer's  are  creatures  of  the  light, 
needing  no  help.  After  all,  perhaps,  if  the  sufferings 
and  wretchedness  of  the  lowly  classes  composing  the 
vast  majority  of  the  population  be  considered,  Lang- 
land  gives  us  a  truer  picture  of  his  day  than  does 
Chaucer. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Langland,  like  his  great  contem- 
porary, marks  a  distinct  advance  made  in  narrative  by 
the  introduction  of  character  portrayal.  Chaucer  pre- 
fers to  show  us  individuals ;  Langland  prefers  to  picture 
masses.  The  one  delights  in  the  psychology  of  one  soul, 
the  other  in  the  psychology  of  the  crowd.  There  may 
be,  of  course,  little  comparison  of  the  arts  of  the  two 
men.  Chaucer  is  one  of  the  greater  story-tellers  of  all 
literature.  However,  in  this  one  point,  character  crea- 
tion, comparison  can  justly  be  made.  The  one  is  bright 
and  persistently  optimistic,  the  other  gloomy  and  stub- 
bornly   pessimistic.     Chaucer    describes    the    seemingly 

131 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

happy  surface;  Langland  uncovers  the  smoldering 
depths.  Chaucer  smiles  at  the  simplicity  of  the  com- 
mon people;  Langland  perceives  the  strength  of  the 
nation  in  them.  Both,  in  the  honest  effort  to  show  life 
as  it  really  appeared  to  them,  contributed  to  fiction  a 
much-needed  realism  that  has  seldom  been  entirely  ab- 
sent in  any  succeeding  day. 

GOWER 

For  the  other  narrators  of  the  fourteenth  and  fif- 
teenth centuries  a  few  pages  of  discussion  should  suffice. 
They  were,  for  the  most  part,  disciples,  imitators,  lack- 
ing in  either  the  bravery  or  power  to  be  highly  original. 
John  Gower,  educated  and  cultured  as  he  was,  wrote 
of  type  heroes  and  type  adventures  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned, monotonous  manner.  Doubtless  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  same  books  as  Chaucer,  and  many 
more  besides;  but  he  lacked  Chaucer's  knowledge  of 
men  and  life,  and  therefore  seldom  could  retell  with  an 
equally  convincing  charm  the  stories  he  found  in  the 
manuscripts. 

John  Gower  (1325-1408)  was  the  aristocrat  of  early 
poets.  Born  of  an  ancient  family,  a  large  land-owner 
in  Kent,  a  thorough  believer  in  the  divine  rights  of 
royalty,  he  could  see  little  good  in  the  common  English 
stock,  and  even  had  his  doubts  as  to  the  permanence  of 
the  English  language.  Naturally  he  found  few  stories 
among  the  lowly  folk  worth  the  telling.  Langland  he 
would  have  scorned;  doubtless  some  of  Chaucer's  plebe- 
ian tales  were  disgusting  to  him.  And  yet  he  was  a 
good  man,  very  religious  and  benevolent;  the  last  six 
or  seven  years  of  his  life  he  spent  in  a  priory  medi- 

132 


i 


\w 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

tating  on  spiritual  matters.  Birth,  training,  environ- 
ment, circumstances,  fortune  in  general,  conspired  to 
give  him  a  narrow  and  prejudiced  view  of  the  world  and 
its  creatures. 

For  this  reason,  as  well  as  for  his  lack  of  daring, 
Gower  cannot  be  classed  as  one  of  the  great  story- 
tellers of  medieval  literature.  His  Speculum  Meditaiv- 
tis,  written  in  French,  is  lost ;  his  Latin  Vox  Clamantis, 
a.  didactic  tirade  against  the  peasants  of  England,  might 
as  well  be  lost  as  far  as  influence  on  a  reading  class 
is  concerned;  his  English  Confessio  Amantis,  written 
at  the  request  of  the  king,  is  saved  from  utter  neglect 
by  means  of  a  few  good  stories  in  it.  In  this  work  a 
lover  makes  his  confession  in  a  formal  manner  to  Genius, 
the  priest  of  Venus.  This  priest  apparently  dislikes 
new  ideas,  fads,  and  modern  ways  of  loving,  and  tells 
the  lover  stories  or  ''examples"  to  illustrate  his  views, 
and  also  as  a  consolation.  The  lover  writes  a  letter  to 
Venus,  using  tears  for  ink,  and  displays  in  his  words 
and  opinions  his  old-fashioned,  knightly  sentimentality. 
At  the  last,  the  lover,  now  old  and  wrinkled,  has  a 
vision  of  the  world's  famous  lovers.  The  chief  interest 
of  the  book  lies,  of  course,  in  its  hundred  or  more 
stories ;  but  the  exact  and  tedious  verse  and  the  monoto- 
nous, detailed  manner  of  narrative  ruin  many  of  them. 
Now  and  then,  however,  the  genius  of  the  man  gains 
the  upper  hand  of  his  conventionality,  and  a  well-told 
romance  results. 

His  story  of  Florent,  which  some  readers  have  con- 
sidered even  better  than  Chaucer's  version,  shows  the 
** moral  Gower''  at  his  best.  Florent,  captured  by  an 
enemy  whose  relative  he  has  killed,  is  offered  life  and 

133 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

freedom  if  lie  can  find  the  answer  to  the  question: 
What  does  every  woman  most  desire?  Going  forth  to 
seek  the  information,  he  meets  an  old  hag  who  promises 
to  tell  him  the  secret  on  condition  that  he  marry  her. 
Having  agreed,  he  learns  that  a  woman  desires  above 
all  else  sovereignty  over  her  husband.  The  answer  is 
correct;  the  knight  is  relieved  from  punishment;  he 
returns  in  disgust  to  marry  the  old  woman.  Immedi- 
ately after  the  marriage,  however,  she  becomes  a  beau- 
tiful lady;  her  beauty  lasts,  and  she  proves  to  be  the 
daughter  of  the  King  of  Sicily.  Here  we  have  indeed 
an  ancient  tale.  The  Sanskrit  and  the  Gaelic  contain 
it;  Gawain  had  the  same  adventure;  Mandeville  finds 
it  in  his  Eastern  travels.  Gower  tells  the  story  well 
mainly  because  it  is  a  good  story  in  itself ;  but  he  relates 
it  in  the  manner  of  medieval  days  and  not  in  that  of  the 
Eenaissance.  Chaucer  may  not  have  made  the  legend 
so  dignified ;  but  it  seems  more  human,  while  the  person 
telling  it  is,  at  least,  a  modern  sinner,  and  not  a  doting, 
sighing  lover  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Yet,  the  fact  that  Gower  was  popular  among  the  edu- 
cated and  in  his  day  stood  in  the  same  rank  as  Chaucer 
shows  that  the  day  was  still  medieval.  Chaucer  and 
possibly  Langland  were  the  only  writers  of  fiction  dar- 
ing to  reach  out  toward  the  future  in  realism  and  bold 
portrayal  of  the  every-day  man.  The  writers  of  the 
fifteenth  century  admired  and  imitated  Chaucer  and 
Gower;  but  they  admired  and  imitated  those  phases 
which  were  least  modern.  Fiction  had  to  wait  for  the 
full  coming  of  the  Eenaissance  in  the  sixteenth  century 
to  free  itself  from  the  conventionalities  of  chivalrous 
romance. 

134 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 

LYDGATE 

Story-writers  of  the  day  recognized  that  it  was  a 
^eeadent  period  and  acknowledged  themselves  to  be  ab- 
ect  copyists.  Lydgate  called  Chaucer  his  master,  and 
'Stephen  Haws  declared  his  intention  to  follow  **all  the 
perfitnes  of  my  master  Lydgate."  Thus  the  disciples 
wrote  voluminously  but  not  with  originality  or  fresh- 
ness, and  all  built  in  'Hhe  shadow  of  Chaucer's  palace." 

Lydgate,  the  frankest  of  these  imitators  of  Chaucer, 
was  born  about  1370,  lived  in  Paris  for  some  time,  was 
a  monk  in  the  monastery  of  Bury  St.  Edmund,  wrote 
as  fast  as  he  could,  and  at  his  death,  about  1446,  doubt- 
less regretted  that  he  had  composed  only  two  or  three 
hundred  thousand  lines  of  poetry.  Not  once  did  he 
dare  to  think  he  could  improve  upon  his  master,  and 
the  more  closely  he  could  associate  himself  with  Chaucer 
the  more  he  felt  honored.  He  even  added  his  Story 
of  Thebes  (1422)  to  the  Canterbury  Tales.  Having  met 
the  pilgrims  returning  from  Canterbury,  he  tells  this 
story  of  Greek  war,  wherein  a  Christian  bishop  blesses 
the  warriors,  and  guns,  cannons,  and  powder  cause 
rather  premature  havoc.  His  Temple  of  Glas  is  similar 
to  the  House  of  Fame;  his  Falls  of  Princes  is  under  ob- 
ligations to  the  Monk's  Tale,  His  perseverance  is  truly 
wonderful.  His  Troy  Book,  of  30,000  lines,  has  been 
well  described  by  Jusserand  as  one  *' where  pasteboard 
warriors  hew  each  other  to  pieces  without  suffering 
much  pain  or  causing  us  much  sorrow. ' '  ^  His  verse 
is  often  abominable;  meter  is  frequently  beneath  his 
notice. 
5  Literary  History  of  the  English  People,  Vol.  I,  p.  500. 

135 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

And  yet,  this  poet  was  popular  for  at  least  one  hun- 
dred years  after  his  death.  Chaucer,  Lydgate,  Gower 
— ^these  composed  the  literary  trinity  before  1500. 
Doubtless  the  churches  aided  in  maintaining  his  fame; 
the  Bishop  of  Ely  declared  that  his  works  led  to  an 
increase  of  virtue.  His  Assembly  of  the  Gods,  for  in- 
stance, is  mainly  a  sermon  on  life  and  death,  and  is 
thinly  veiled  by  a  conventional  story  and  vision.  In 
his  sleep  he  is  carried  by  Morpheus  to  Pluto's  kingdom, 
^olus  is  accused  of  bringing  ruin  to  the  world ;  Apollo 
has  the  gods  assemble  for  a  banquet;  but  Diana  will 
not  feast  until  ^olus  is  judged;  he  is  found  innocent. 
Discord  and  Death  enter,  and  ** examples"  are  presented 
to  show  their  power.  Then  Vice  determines  to  attack 
Virtue.  A  procession  of  Virtue's  followers — Humility, 
Patience,  etc. — is  pictured.  Vice's  host  is  much  larger; 
but  Virtue  may  depend  on  the  strength  of  Purity. 
Conscience  stands  in  the  field  as  Judge.  Sensuality 
sows  weeds  in  which  Virtue  becomes  entangled;  Perse- 
verance comes  to  the  rescue;  Vice  is  conquered;  Pre- 
destination brings  the  palm  to  Virtue.  Free  Will 
blames  the  loss  on  Sensuality ;  Nature  argues  in  defense 
of  Sensuality.  In  the  end  Death  is  given  a  place  in  the 
world.  Moi^pheus  brings  forward  the  conventional 
painted  wall,  and  Doctrine  explains  the  morals  por- 
trayed on  it.  It  is  very  doubtful  whether  Lydgate 's 
'* master  Chaucer"  would  have  been  wildly  enthusiastic 
over  this  hodgepodge  of  Christian  and  pagan  theology. 
Surely  Providence  was  allowing  the  old  forces  in  fiction 
to  wear  themselves  out  that  the  field  might  be  prepared 
for  a  new  and  saner  form  of  literature. 

The  old  themes  have  been  worn  threadbare;  the  old 

136 


II 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES 


methods  have  been  used  until  any  one  can  use  them; 
enthusiasm  and  interest  must  be  gained  from  some  new 
source.  Aid  came  from  an  unexpected  direction.  The 
very  unromantic  and  unpoetic  demands  of  trade  brought 
forth  a  novel  type  of  literature — the  travel  book. 
Books  on  commerce,  trade  statements,  descriptions  of 
other  lands,  were  in  demand.  Real  life  had  to  be  dealt 
with,  and  prose,  instead  of  poetry,  necessarily  was  given 
opportunity  to  picture  scenes  and  relate  adventures. 
Mandeville's  Travels  proved  that  modern  life  as  well 
as  the  days  of  chivalry  contained  wonders  worth  the 
telling.  True,  modern  research  has  proved  that  Man- 
l  deville  never  existed  and  that  a  French  physician,  Jean 
de  Bourgogne,  wrote  the  book  and  created  the  character 
of  Mandeville  just  as  Defoe  did  that  of  Robinson  Crusoe ; 
but  the  fact  remains  that  here  was  a  work  having 
precious  little  to  do  with  love-lorn  knights  and  angelic 
ladies  and  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  supposed  facts  of 
modern  life. 

More  and  more  from  this  time  forth  will  fiction  show 
this  trait — an  effort  to  put  the  facts  of  life  before  us. 
The  stories  may  be  romantic;  they  may  portray  an  im- 
possible pastoral  or  ideal  existence;  but  some  concep- 
tion of  reality  and  some  respect  for  plausibility  will  be 
evidenced,  while  the  various  characters  will  show  some 
peculiar  individuality  rather  than  the  traits  of  a  mere 
type.  The  period  at  least  gave  weariness  of  the  old 
forms,  showed  the  necessity  for  realism,  cleared  the 
stage  for  a  new  and  more  distinctive  form  of  actors  and 
action,  and  caused  a  more  earnest  attempt  to  fathom 
the  motives  and  emotions  of  the  soul. 


137 


CHAPTEE  V 

The  Fiction  of  the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth 
Centuries 

foreign  fiction 

JussERAND  has  Said:  **In  one  thing  the  French  con- 
querors entirely  failed;  they  never  succeeded  in  accli- 
matizing during  the  Middle  Ages  those  shorter  prose 
stories  which  were  so  popular  in  their  own  country. ' '  ^ 
It  remained  for  the  Renaissance  to  bring  French  and 
Italian  fiction  into  hearty  admiration  and  imitation 
among  the  English.  Curiosity  was  doubtless  the  most 
prominent  and  persistent  trait  of  that  wonderful  period 
of  intellectual  awakening;  the  customs  and  thoughts  of 
other  lands  were  in  demand;  and  the  result  was  that 
a  torrent  of  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian  literature 
flooded  the  British  Isles.  And  accompanying  such 
works  of  an  informing  nature  came  the  fiction  of  these 
foreigners.  Some  of  the  old-fashioned  Englishmen  of 
the  day  were  shocked  at  not  only  the  amount  but  the 
contents.  Ascham  declared  that  these  stories  could  be 
found  in  every  shop  in  London,  and  complained  that, 
bad  as  Malory's  Morte  d' Arthur  was  for  public  morals, 
these  Continental  tales  were  a  hundred  times  more  per- 
nicious.    Some  translators  themselves  agreed  with  these 

1  English  "Novel  in  tJie  IHme  of  Shakespeare,  p.  47. 

138 


11. 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

frowning  critics ;  Harrington,  for  instance,  in  his  edition 
of  Orlando  Furioso,  felt  called  upon  to  write  an  apology 
and  to  give  a  list  of  the  objectionable  parts  in  his  book, 
so  that  conscientious  readers  could  pass  by  such  out- 
landish sections. 

Soon  collections  of  such  freely  translated  stories  were 
appearing  thick  and  fast.  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure 
(1566)  contained  blood-stirring  selections  from  Boc- 
caccio's works  and  other  Italian  narratives,  and  soon 
Shakespeare,  seizing  upon  the  book,  was  presenting  the 
public  with  the  same  food  under  such  titles  as  Eomeo 
and  Juliet,  All 's  Well  thai  Ends  Well,  and  Measure  for 
Measure,  Fenton's  Tragical  Discourses  (1567),  Riche's 
Farewell  to  the  Military  Profession  (1584),  one  of  the 
sources  of  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night,  and  Grime- 
ston's  Admirable  and  Memorable  Histories  (1607)  — 
these  might  be  named  as  specimens  of  the  foreign  fiction 
that  every  dandy,  yes,  and  every  sober  gentleman,  in 
London  fingered  at  the  book-stall.  Numerous  short 
stories  were  given  translation  (so  called)  and  sold  sep- 
arately, and  very  early  the  common  folk  outside  of 
London,  as  well  as  in  it,  were  buying  from  peddling 
chapmen  tales  that  had  been  dreamed  under  the  vine- 
clad  hills  of  Italy.  Thus  the  Hystorie  of  Hamblet 
(1618),  originally  from  Bandello,  but  brought  in 
through  the  French,  was  offered  in  cheap  form;  The 
History  of  Lady  Lucres  was  translated  at  least  eight 
times;  and  side  by  side  with  these  on  the  book-shelf  or 
in  the  chapman's  bag  might  be  found  the  abbreviated 
and  mutilated  Guy  of  Warwick,  Arthur  of  Little  Brit- 
ain, Robin  Hood,  and  many  another  legend  that  had 
come  down  from  the  old  days.     Truly  the  Renaissance 

139 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

had  made  England  almost  as  fiction-mad  as  the  America 
of  the  twentieth  century. 

These  stories  were  not  of  the  gentlest  and  sweetest 
nature;  we  soon  discover  that,  unlike  Bottom,  they  did 
not  *^roar  like  any  sucking  dove.''  There  was  in  them 
a  most  dramatic  display  of  feeling  and  passion.  In 
Lady  Lucres,  for  example,  the  heroine,  a  married  woman, 
falls  in  love  with  Eurialus,  and,  willing  to  risk  safety, 
reputation,  peace  with  God,  for  the  fulfilment  of  her 
desire,  raves  in  her  torment  with  all  the  violence  of 
a  ''penny  dreadful.''  Moralists  of  the  day,  such  as 
Ascham,  might  rail  loudly  against  such  blood-curdling 
narratives ;  but  this  only  further  aroused  the  interest  of 
the  people  and  increased  the  sales. 

FOLK   TALES 

Caxton's  press  had  begun  the  popularizing  of  fiction, 
and  the  good,  or  bad,  work  went  busily  on.  The  list  of 
his  printings  shows  a  large  percentage  of  fiction;  Gower's 
Confessio,  Chaucer's  Tales,  Lydgate's  stories,  a  prose 
version  of  Reynard  the  Fox,  and  in  July,  1485,  Malory's 
Morte  d^ Arthur,  This  masterly  piece  of  fiction — for, 
with  all  its  length,  repetitions,  and  confusion,  it  is  mas- 
terly— ^held  public  interest  until  near  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  gave  way  then  "only  because 
analysis  of  emotion  instead  of  mere  incident  became 
the  dominant  theme  in  story-telling.  The  printing- 
press  gave  some  books  fame  because  they  deserved  it; 
but  it  also  kept  many  alive,  not  because  they  were  good, 
but  because  they  were  cheapened  and  satisfied  the  pas- 
sionate hunger  of  a  naturally  intellectual  people  who 
had  long  been  deprived  of  reading.    As  we  have  noted 

140 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

Hn  the  previous  study,  absurd  tales  of  such  ancients 
as  Virgil  and  Hercules,  now  become  magicians  or  ro- 
mantic knights,  still  persisted,  while  stories  of  such 
national  figures  as  Ilobin  Hood,  Thomas  of  Reading, 
and  George-a-Green  gained  fresh  life  through  the  as- 
sistance of  type.  It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  these  nar- 
ratives of  the  good  old  English  manner  survived,  with 
their  rude  but  sane  simplicity,  else  the  nation  under 
the  influence  of  the  foreign  fiction  of  passion  and  in- 
trigue might  have  lost  a  decent  standard  of  morality. 
Oftentimes  these  homely  stories  were  in  still  more 
homely  language,  and  to  this  day  we  find  some  of  that 
charm  which  caused  them  to  sell  readily  when  hawked 
up  and  down  the  streets  of  old  London.  Notice  this 
picture  of  a  feast  among  the  common  folk,  as  shown  in 
TJiomas  of  Reading: 

''Sutton's  wife  of  Salisbury,  which  had  lately  been 
delivered  of  a  son,  against  her  going  to  church,  pre- 
pared great  cheer;  at  what  time  Simon's  wife  of  South- 
ampton came  thither,  and  so  did  divers  others  of  the 
clothiers'  wives,  only  to  make  merry  at  this  churching 
feast;  and  whilst  these  dames  sat  at  the  table.  Crab, 
Weasel,  and  Wren  waited  on  the  board,  and  as  the  old 
Proverb  speaketh,  *Many  women,  many  words,'  so  fell 
it  out  at  that  time ;  for  there  was  such  prattling  that  it 
passed:  some  talked  of  their  husbands'  frowardness, 
some  showed  their  maids'  sluttishness,  othersome  de- 
ciphered the  costliness  of  their  garments,  some  told  many 
tales  of  their  neighbors :  and,  to  be  brief,  there  was  none 
of  them  but  would  have  talked  for  a  whole  day. 

*'But  when  Crab,  Weasel,  and  Wren  saw  this  they 
concluded  betwixt  themselves  that  as  oft  as  any  of  the 

141 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

women  had  a  good  bit  of  meat  on  their  trenchers  they, 
offering  a  clean  one,  should  catch  that  commodity,  and 
so  they  did :  but  the  women,  being  busy  in  talk,  marked  it 
not  till  at  the  last  one  found  leisure  to  miss  her  meat." 

MORE 

Far  above  this  gusty  current  of  popular  folk-lore 
glided  a  calmer  but  ever-increasing  current  of  contem- 
plative literature.  And  one  of  the  spirits  of  this  upper 
air  was  Sir  Thomas  More  (1485-1535).  That  was  a 
lovable  man — a  curious,  contradictory  sort  of  being, 
one  who  for  the  good  of  his  soul  wore  an  *  *  inner  sharp 
shirt  of  hair,"  subjected  himself  almost  daily  to  severe 
penance,  hated  Protestants,  as  a  class,  with  all  his  heart, 
and  loved  many  of  them,  as  individuals,  with  the  same 
zeal,  and  yet  a  man  who  with  all  cheerfulness  served 
his  kingdom  with  such  ability  as  to  become  the  suc- 
cessor of  the  mighty  Wolsey  as  Lord  Chancellor.  His 
was  a  prophetic  spirit,  seeing  at  least  a  millennium  be- 
yond his  day.  Educated  under  the  watchful  eye  of  a 
suspicious  father,  who  removed  him  from  Oxford  lest  the 
Greek  ruin  his  Catholicism,  he  gained  breadth  in  spite 
of  his  environment,  and  wrote  in  the  Utopia  that  which 
three  centuries  have  declared  surpassingly  worthy  and 
wise  but  have  not  yet  wholly  attained. 

The  Utopia  (the  name  is  from  two  Greek  words  mean- 
ing No  Land)  was  published  in  Latin  in  1516,  and  did 
not  appear  in  English  until  translated  by  Ealph  Robin- 
son in  1551.  For  two  reasons,  it  would  seem,  the  author 
wrote  in  the  ancient  tongue:  first,  because  he  may  have 
had  serious  doubts  as  to  the  future  of  English  as  a  lit- 
erary medium,   and,  second,  that  the  book  might  not 

142 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

reach  the  lower  classes  and  inflame  their  unreasoning 
passions  by  its  socialism. 

He  need  not  have  feared ;  it  requires  a  thinking  being 
to  appreciate  the  full  meaning  and  scope  of  this  strange 
dream;  doubtless  the  crowd  would  have  laughed  at  it 
and  turned  back  to  the  old  ways.  The  second  part  of  the 
book  (the  part  written  first,  however)  is  by  far  the 
more  pleasant;  it  contains  the  vision  of  that  republican 
government  where  the  ruler  is  elected  by  the  vote  of  an 
intelligent  populace;  where  all  are  compelled  to  re- 
ceive education;  where  there  are  few  laws  and  abso- 
lutely no  lawyers;  where  war  is  unknown  because  *'a 
thing  very  beastly'';  and  where  even  hunting  is  ab- 
horred because  the  pursuit  and  slaughter  of  an  **  in- 
nocent hare"  is  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  grown  man. 
''By  all  means  possible  thei  procure  to  have  golde  and 
silver  among  them  in  reproche  and  infamie/'  and,  since 
all  draw  their  food  and  clothing  from  the  public  store- 
house, the  mad  scramble  for  wealth  is  unheard  of. 
There  are  no  priests  in  the  land,  for  the  worship  is  most 
simple,  and  each  man  is  allowed  all  freedom  of  con- 
science ;  ' '  thei  consider  it  a  point  of  arrogant  presump- 
tion to  compell  all  others  by  violence  and  threatenings 
to  agre  to  the  same  that  thou  believest  to  be  trew." 

But,  turning  to  the  first  book,  what  a  picture  of  the 
real  world  we  have !  Here  is  Defoe  long  before  his  day. 
London  in  all  her  desolate  wickedness  is  shown  with  a 
realism  scarcely  surpassed  by  this  later  master.  The 
cruel  punishments  for  minor  crimes,  the  peasants  strug- 
gling under  the  loss  of  their  farms  now  turned  into 
pastures,  the  tyranny  of  the  disbanded  armies,  the  hypoc- 
risy of  the  priests,  the  foul  scheming  of  the  govern- 

143 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ment,  the  lust  for  place  and  fame,  the  burden  of  war 
and  display — all  these  stand  out  with  the  gloomy  bold- 
ness of  a  Rembrandt. 

Above  all  else,  for  our  purpose  at  least,  is  the  fact 
that  the  story  sounds  natural.  The  narrative  opens 
with  a  disavowal  of  any  intention  to  startle  the  reader 
with  heroic  deeds  or  monstrous  beings.  An  old  mariner 
is  asked  to  tell  of  his  travels,  and  he  agrees  to  do  so. 
**But  as  for  monsters  by  cause  they  be  no  newes,  of 
them  we  were  nothyng  inquisitive.  For  nothyng  is 
more  easye  to  bee  founde  then  bee  barkynge  Scyllges, 
ravenyng  Celenes,  and  Lestrigones  devourers  of  peo- 
ple, and  such  lyke  great  and  incredible  monsters.  But 
to  find  citisens  ruled  by  good  and  holesome  lawes,  that 
is  an  exceding  rare  and  harde  thyng."  Forthwith  the 
ancient  mariner  begins  to  talk  like  a  human  being,  and 
his  characters  talk  and  act  likewise.  The  descriptions 
are  not  exaggerations,  but  vivid  and  realistic ;  the  humor 
is  fresh;  the  story  with  all  its  details  moves  rapidly, 
accurately,  and  surely.  A  splendid  book  of  splendid 
dreams  is  this — dreams  *^  destined  to  be  realized  long 
after  More's  headless  body  had  crumbled  to  dust,  by 
that  learning  which  he  himself  so  sedulously  cultivated, 
and  by  the  decay,  too,  of  some  of  those  ideas  for  which 
he  died  a  martyr's  death.  "^ 

This,  then,  is  not  the  least  among  those  visions  of  the 
Ideal  State,  beginning  with  Plato's  Bepuhlic  and  ap- 
pearing again  and  again  in  more  modern  times  in  such 
works  as  Barclay's  Argenis,  Bacon's  Nev)  Atlantis,  the 
story  of  Gargantua  and  Pantagruel,  Bergerac's  States 
and  Empires,  Godwin's  Man  in  the  Moon,  the  Duchess 
sTuckerman;     Eistory  of  English  Prose  Fiction,  p.  68. 

144 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

of  Newcastle's  Blazing  World,  Harington's  Oceana, 
Fenelon's  Telemaque,  Berington's  Memoirs  of  Gauden- 
tio,  Montaigne's  Essays,  Voltaire's  Tales,  Swifts'  Gulli- 
ver's Travels,  and  Bellamy's  Looking  Backward. 

LYLY 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  successors  of  More  found  so 
little  worthy  of  imitation  in  his  naturalness  and  sim- 
plicity. But  now  came  on  an  age  of  fads  and  fancies, 
of  vain  display  and  extravagant  ornamentation.  Men 
spent  fortunes  on  dress,  and  the  Common  Council  of 
London  felt  compelled  in  1582  to  pass  laws  preventing 
common  apprentices  from  wearing  silk  on  their  hats, 
a  ruff  or  a  collar  more  than  a  yard  and  a  half  long, 
and  doublets  adorned  with  silver  and  gold.  The  queen 
herself  could  not  bear  to  be  outdressed,  while  ladies 
of  the  day  tortured  themselves  with  vast  accumulations 
of  stiffened  apparel,  wire  hair-cages,  staves,  etc.  Pros- 
perity had  brought  artificiality  in  dress,  in  manners, 
and,  alas,  in  literature.  Said  John  Lyly,  the  father  of 
English  Euphuism:  '*It  is  a  world  to  see  how  Eng- 
lishmen desire  to  hear  finer  speech  than  the  language 
will  allow";  and  he  then  proceeded  to  distort  the  Eng- 
lish speech  into  a  ** fineness"  never  before  dreamed  of. 

Euphues,  the  anatomy  of  wyt  .  .  .  wherein  are 
contained  the  delights  that  wyt  followeth  in  his  youth 
hy  the  pleasauntnesse  of  Love,  and  the  happynesse  he 
reapeth  in  age  hy  the  perfectnesse  of  wisedom — this  is 
but  a  portion  of  the  title  of  that  book  which  for  ten  or 
fifteen  years  swept  English  prose  off  its  feet,  turned  the 
heads  of  Elizabethan  courtiers,  and  threatened  to  turn 
the  English  language  into  a  hopeless  mass  of  intricate 
10  145 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

phraseology  and  monotonously  balanced  epigrams.  It 
was  the  result  of  a  highly  artificial  civilization;  it  was 
intended  for  the  victims  of  ennui  produced  by  such  a 
civilization ;  and  especially  was  its  appeal  to  the  women 
idlers  of  the  period.  '^Euphues  had  rather  lye  shut  in 
a  Ladyes  casket  then  open  in  a  Schollers  studie.''  **It 
resteth,  Ladies,  that  you  take  the  paines  to  read  it,  but 
at  such  times  as  you  spend  in  playing  with  your  little 
Dogges,  and  yet  will  I  not  pinch  you  of  that  pastime, 
for  I  am  content  that  your  Dogges  lye  in  your  laps, 
so  Euphues  may  be  in  your  hands,  that  when  you  shall 
be  wearie  of  the  one  you  may  be  ready  to  sport  with 
the  other. ' '  The  author  had  his  desire ;  for  every  lady 
of  the  day  talked  Euphuism;  the  queen  herself  smiled 
upon  it;  and  playwrights  and  story-tellers  imitated  it 
with  extreme  zeal. 

"Who  was  this  innovator,  John  Lyly?  Little  enough 
is  known  of  his  life.  Born  in  Kent  in  1554,  he  received 
his  Master  of  Arts  at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  but,  ac- 
cording to  Wood's  History  of  Oxford  (1674),  was  never 
a  good  student  there,  being  *' always  adverse  to  the 
crabbed  studies  of  logic  and  philosophy."  Yet  at  the 
University  and  at  Elizabeth's  court  he  was  esteemed 
''a  noted  wit"  and  '*a  rare  poet,  witty,  comical,  and 
facetious."  Writing  he  always  was;  probably  he 
thought  that  his  pen  might  gain  him  favor  with  the 
queen.  If  so,  his  hopes  were  vain;  for  many  years  of 
waiting  brought  only  ^'a  thousand  hopes,  but  all  nothing, 
a  hundred  promises,  but  yet  nothing";  and  when  he 
lay  down  to  die  in  1606,  he  declared  he  left  but  **  pa- 
tience to  my  creditors,  melancholic  without  measure  to 
my  friends,  and  beggarie  without  shame  to  my  family," 

146 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

This  maker  of  embroidered  English  by  no  means  in- 
vented the  embroidery.  The  form  was  an  importation 
from  Spain,  where  Guevara,  whose  works  had  already 
been  translated  into  English,  had  made  the  style  popu- 
lar, and  Lyly  came  at  the  right  moment  in  the  develop- 
ment of  British  intellectual  life  to  supply  with  his 
labored  use  of  similes  and  antitheses  the  national  long- 
ing for  the  novel  and  fantastic.  The  plot  is  but  a 
feeble  effort.  Euphues  and  Philautus,  two  young  men 
of  Naples,  are  the  closest  of  friends.  Philautus  is  in 
love  with  a  lady,  Lucilla;  but,  Euphues  having  been 
presented,  the  latter  argues  with  such  clever  wit  about 
such  abstruse  questions  as  whether  intellect  or  hand- 
someness in  a  man  causes  woman  to  love,  that  the  lady 
promptly  falls  in  love  with  him,  and  naturally  a  mis- 
understanding arises  between  the  two  gentlemen  from 
Naples.  Now  letters  of  the  most  stilted  and  elaborate 
nature  are  exchanged.  '^Dost  thou  not  know,"  writes 
Philautus,  *'a  perfect  friend  should  be  lyke  the  Glaze- 
worme,  which  shineth  most  bright  in  the  darke  ?  or  lyke 
the  pure  Frankincense  which  smelleth  most  sweet  when 
it  is  in  the  fire?  or  at  the  leaste  not  unlyke  to  the 
damaske  Rose  which  is  sweeter  in  the  still  then  on  the 
stalke?  But  thou,  Euphues,  dost  rather  resemble  the 
Swallow,  which  in  the  summer  creepeth  under  the  eves 
of  eny  house,  and  in  the  winter  leaveth  nothing  but 
durt  behind  hir;  or  the  humble  Bee,  which  having 
sucked  hunny  out  of  the  fay  re  flower,  doth  leave  it  and 
loath  it ;  or  the  Spider  which  in  the  finest  web  doth  hang 
the  fayrest  Fly." 

After  a  time,  however,  Lucilla  jilts  Euphues  also, 
and  the  two  lovers  in  each  other's  arms  bemoan  in  care- 

147 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

fully  balanced  phrases  the  folly  of  women  in  general 
and  of  this  one  in  particular. 

This  first  book  appeared  in  1579.  In  1580  in  the  second 
part,  EupJmes  and  His  England,  the  two  friends  visit 
Great  Britain,  where  Philautus,  to  the  disgust  of  his 
friend,  marries,  and  Euphues,  after  much  praise  of 
English  affairs  in  general,  goes  to  the  *' bottom  of  the 
Mountain  Silexedra"  to  spend  his  remaining  years  in 
meditating  in  thoughts  carefully  split  in  halves.  This 
is  indeed  fit  and  proper ;  for  how  grave  and  serious  these 
two  young  men  are!  How  deeply,  earnestly,  and  con- 
fidently they  talk  of  religion,  love,  marriage,  child- 
rearing,  what  not!  Always  very  liberal  in  their  opin- 
ions, they  are  yet  just  as  positive.  The  two  books  are 
filled  with  deep  dissertations  on  many  subjects,  and 
from  far  and  near  the  talkers  bring  thf^ir  similes  and 
metaphors  to  enforce  their  meanings. 

'*The  foule  Toade  hath  a  fayre  stone  in  his  head,  the 
fine  gold  is  found  in  the  filthy  earth,  the  sweet  kernell 
lyeth  in  the  hard  shell :  vertue  is  harboured  in  the  heart 
of  him  that  most  men  esteeme  misshappen.  Contrari- 
wise, if  we  respect  more  the  outward  shape,  then  the 
inward  habit,  good  God,  into  how  many  mischiefes  do 
we  fall?  into  what  blindnesse  are  we  ledde?  Doe  we 
not  commonly  see  that  in  painted  pottes  is  hidden  the 
deadly  est  poyson?  that  in  the  greenest  grasse  is  the 
greatest  serpent?  in  the  cleerest  water  the  ugliest 
Toade?     .     .     .    ' 

'*  'In  the  coldest  flint,"  says  Lucilla,  Hhere  is  hot 
fire;  the  Bee  that  hath  hunny  in  hir  mouth  hath  a 
sting  in  hir  tayle;  the  tree  that  beareth  the  sweetest 
fruite  hath  a  sower  sap ;  yea,  the  wordes  of  men,  though 

148 


11 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

they  seeme  smooth  as  oyle,  yet  their  heartes  are  as 
crooked  as  the  stalke  of  Ivie.'  " 

Lyly  doubtless  knew  he  was  pricking  the  popular 
curiosity  of  the  day  by  bringing  in  such  dangerous  ani- 
mals and  plants.  TopselPs  History  of  Four-Footed 
Beasts  and  History  of  Serpents,  two  widely  read  books 
of  the  period,  appealed  to  their  readers  by  means  of 
the  same  strange  information.  The  Lamia,  for  instance, 
as  described  by  Topsell,  has  fore  legs  like  a  bear's,  hind 
legs  like  a  goat's,  breasts  like  a  woman's,  and  a  body 
scaled  like  a  dragon's,  and  when  it  sees  a  man  entices 
him  by  the  beauty  of  its  bosom,  and  then  devours  him. 
Travelers  in  America,  India,  and  other  far-away  lands 
were  constantly  bringing  back  stories  of  such  monsters, 
and  Lyly  showed  shrewdness  in  using  these  monstrosities 
in  his  strained  comparisons. 

In  spite  of  his  imitation  of  a  foreign  movement,  and 
in  spite  of  his  fantastic  manner,  Lyly  is,  after  all,  true 
to  his  English  training.  Morality  must  conquer.  Man 
must  not  be  overcome  by  woman.  The  two  lovers  are, 
of  course,  especially  long-winded  when  discoursing  on 
love.  When  feeling  love-throes  approaching,  go  to 
study  instead  of  to  the  lady.  *'Try  law  or  physicke  or 
divinitie,  or  meditate  sarcastically  about  woman.  Take 
from  them  their  perywigges,  their  paintings,  their  jew- 
els, their  rowles,  their  boulstrings,  and  thou  shalt  soone 
perceive  that  a  woman  is  the  least  part  of  hir  self  e.  When 
they  be  once  robbed  of  their  robes,  then  will  they  appear 
so  odious,  so  ugly,  so  monstrous,  that  thou  wilt  rather 
think  them  serpents  then  saints,  and  so  like  hags,  that 
thou  wilt  feare  rather  to  be  enchaunted  then  enamoured. 
Looke  in  their  closettes,  and  there  shalt  thou  finde  an 

149 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

appotiearyes  shop  of  sweete  confections,  a  surgions  boxe 
of  sundry  salves,  a  pedlers  packe  of  newe  fangles.  Be- 
sides all  this  their  shadows,  their  spots,  their  lawnes, 
their  leefekyes,  their  ruffles,  their  rings,  shew  them 
rather  cardinall  curtisans  then  modest  matrons." 

In  short,  Euphues  is  a  series  of  sermons  with  some 
signs  of  the  novel  throughout  it.  There  is  really  some 
earnest  pleading  for  a  change  in  the  dangerous  customs 
of  the  day.  Discussing  the  question  of  nursing  chil- 
dren, the  author  says :  *  ^  It  is  most  necessary  and  most 
naturall,  in  mine  opinion,  that  the  mother  of  the  childe 
be  also  the  nurse,  both  for  the  entire  love  she  beareth 
to  the  babe,  and  the  great  desire  she  hath  to  have  it 
well  nourished:  for  is  there  any  one  more  meete  to 
bring  up  the  infant  than  she  that  bore  it?  .  .  .  Is 
the  earth  called  the  mother  of  all  things  only  because  it 
bringeth  forth.  No,  but  because  it  nourisheth  those 
things  that  springe  out  of  it.  Whatsoever  is  bred  in  the 
sea  is  fed  in  the  sea ;  .  .  .  the  lyonesse  nurseth  hir 
whelps,  the  raven  cherisheth  hir  byrdes,  the  viper  hir 
broode,  and  shal  a  woman  cast  away  hir  babe  ?  ' ' 

In  spite  of  its  moralizing,  its  sermons,  its  petty  tricks 
of  language,  its  straining  similes  and  its  nice  distinc- 
tions, we  have  in  this  book  an  approach  toward  the 
novel  of  manners.  No  marvels  are  set  before  us;  the 
characters  have  the  thoughts  and  the  mode  of  think- 
ing of  sixteenth  or  seventeenth  century  beings;  there 
is  a  real  attempt  to  analyze  sentiments;  this  paper  gar- 
den has  some  natural  flowers  in  it.  True,  the  two 
young  men  from  Naples  often  act  like  two  sticks;  true, 
Euphues  is  the  ancestor  of  Richardson's  monster  of 
gentility,  Sir  Charles  Grandison  and  all  the  other  ab- 

150 


II 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

normally  moral  characters  of  the  eighteenth-century 
fiction;  but  we  feel  that  here  is  a  distinct  effort  to 
portray  life  as  it  is  or  might  be,  and  such  an  effort 
means  much  progress  in  the  evolution  of  fiction.  But 
of  more  value  than  all  this,  perhaps,  is  the  fact  that 
here  at  length  is  an  attempt  at  valuation  of  words,  an 
effort  to  fathom  the  possibilities  of  language,  an  en- 
deavor to  gain  precision  and  suggestiveness.  From  this 
passing  fad  English  literature  must  have  issued  wdth  a 
new  understanding  of  its  power  and  limitations  and 
with  recognition  that  mere  plot  cannot  make  masterly 
fiction. 

lyly's  imitators 

Of  course,  a  host  of  imitators  and  scoffers  soon  trod 
upon  the  heels  of  Lyly.  Shakespeare  ridiculed  his 
language  in  Love's  Labor  's  Lost;  Falstaff  makes  use 
of  it  in  the  first  part  of  Henry  IV;  Ben  Jonson  in 
Every  Man  out  of  His  Humor  imitated  the  style;  even 
as  modern  an  author  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  presents  Eu- 
phuism in  one  production,  The  Monastery,  In  their 
efforts  to  increase  sales,  writers  of  the  late  sixteenth  cen- 
tury thrust  the  word  ''Euphues*'  into  their  titles.  Thus 
Munday  issued  in  1580  Zelauto  .  .  .  containing  a 
delicate  disputation  .  .  .  given  for  a  friendly  en- 
tertainment to  Euphues  at  his  late  arrival  into  England; 
Robert  Greene  in  1587  issued  Euphues,  his  censure  to 
Philautus  wherein  is  presented  a  philosophical  combat 
between  Hector  and  Achilles;  in  1589  came  Greene's 
Menaphon,  Camillas  Alarum  to  Slumbering  Euphues; 
Lodge's  Rosalynde,  Euphues  Golden  Legacie  found 
after  his  death  in  his  cell  at  Silexedra,  came  in  1590; 

151 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and  in  1594  Dickenson's  Arisbas,  Euphues  amidst  his 
Slumbers,  added  another  to  the  imitations.  Some  of 
these  were  as  devoid  of  genius  as  they  were  full  of 
extravagance;  all  smacked  of  plagiarism.  Zelauto,  to 
take  an  example,  was  a  son  of  the  Duke  of  Venice,  who, 
having  heard  from  English  merchants  descriptions  of 
their  native  land,  visits  the  island  and  is  as  delighted 
as  ever  Euphues  was. 

A  score  or  more  of  books  imitated  the  plot  and  style, 
without  granting  Lyly  so  much  credit  as  the  insertion 
of  the  word  ^'Euphues."  Barnaby  Eiche's  Don  Simon- 
ides  (1581)  tells  of  a  nobleman  who  visits  Great  Britain, 
sees  the  best  society,  and  is  delighted;  this,  as  well  as 
The  Second  Tome  of  Travailes  of  Don  Simonides  (1584), 
used  by  Shakespeare  in  Twelfth  Night,  was  highly  pop- 
ular. Warner's  Pan,  his  Syrinx  (1584)  is  but  another 
copy  of  Euphues,  wherein  Sorares  is  cast  upon  a  desert 
island,  his  sons  seek  him,  all  meet  with  many  adven- 
tures, and  all  hear  stories  and  argue,  with  untiring  en- 
thusiasm and  Euphuism,  on  such  moral  and  philosophi- 
cal topics  as  the  artificiality  of  woman  and  the  vanity 
of  love.  Melbancke  's  Philctimus,  1585,  is  another  speci- 
men of  a  feeble  Euphuistic  plot  tottering  under  its 
burden  of  ethical  disquisitions. 

GREENE 

Little  would  be  gained  by  an  extended  list  of  these 
minor  plagiarisms  on  Lyly;  they  show  simply  the  bold 
knavery  of  mediocrity.  A  few  men  who  followed  the 
footsteps  of  Euphues  were  writers  of  ability  if  not  of 
genius,  and  one  of  these  was  Robert  Greene  (1560- 
1592).    He  was  one  of  those  wild,  uncontrollable,  and 

152 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

unfortunate  spirits  who  flashed  too  quickly  through  the 
days  of  Shakespeare.  His  life  was  a  series  of  de- 
bauches and  remorse.  Working  rapidly,  carelessly,  and 
by  fits,  **he  made  no  account,"  declares  his  friend 
Nash,  **of  winning  credit  by  his  works,"  but  simply  to 
put  *'a  spel  in  his  purse  to  conjure  up  a  good  cuppe 
of  wine  with  it  at  all  times."  Born  at  Norwich  of  a 
good  and  wealthy  family,  he  was  sent  to  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge,  where  the  native  wild  spirit  soon 
asserted  itself.  **  Being  at  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
I  light  amongst  wags  as  lewd  as  my  self  e,  with  whome 
I  consumed  the  flower  of  my  youth,  who  drew  me  to 
travell  into  Italy  and  Spaine,  in  which  places  I  saw  and 
practizde  such  villainie  as  is  abominable  to  declare." 
By  1580  he  had  written  a  novel,  Mamillia,  in  the  Italian 
style,  but  did  not  publish  it  until  1583,  the  year  he  re- 
ceived his  M.A.  Soon  he  had  out-Lylyed  Lyly.  Before 
1590  he  had  published  fifteen  ** love-pamphlets,"  and 
in  every  one  he  had  equaled  or  excelled  the  Euphuist's 
chief  traits :  **his  languid  elegance,  his  excessive  pretti- 
ness,  and  his  abnormal  botany  and  zoology."* 

Even  after  the  success  of  several  novels,  Greene  re- 
turned to  college,  this  time  to  Oxford  in  1588 ;  but  most 
of  the  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent  in  London.  Here 
'*in  a  night  and  a  day  would  he  have  yarkt  up  a  pam- 
phlet" that  other  men  could  not  have  produced  in 
months,  and  the  result  was  such  works  as  The  Mirror  of 
Modesty ,  dealing  with  the  chastity  of  woman;  Arhasto, 
telling  of  a  Danish  king's  loves  and  battles;  Morando, 
containing  detailed  lectures  on  love;  Pandosto,  describ- 
ing ideal  or  impossible  shepherds  and  thereby  gaining 

sPattee:     Fou/ndations  of  English  Literature,  p.  274. 

153 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

great  success;  and  Menaphon,  a  beautiful  pastoral  tale 
and  a  work  of  real  merit.  "Well  might  lie  boast  in  his 
Repentance  of  his  ability  as  **a  penner  of  love-pam- 
phlets"; for  his  fame  was  wider  than  Shakespeare's. 

Fame  could  not,  however,  supply  his  purse  as  fast  as 
his  good  fellowship  could  empty  it,  and  at  length,  hav- 
ing met  an  actor  gorgeously  dressed  who  depicted  to 
him  the  glories  and  profits  of  the  stage,  he  himself  be- 
came an  actor  and  made  large  sums.  These,  too,  dis- 
appeared as  soon  as  gained.  In  1586  he  married  a  good 
woman  and  tried  to  lead  a  moral  life ;  but  his  wild  soul 
could  not  be  tamed,  and  shortly  after  the  birth  of  a 
son  he  left  his  wife  and  never  saw  her  again.  And  yet 
he  must  have  been  a  man  of  affection,  worthy  of  loving 
and  being  loved.  He  declared  several  times  that  people 
came  all  day  long  to  talk  with  him.  But  the  daredevil 
in  him  had  too  long  reigned.  *^Hell,  .  .  .  what 
talke  you  of  hell  to  me  ?  I  know  if  I  once  come  there  I 
shall  have  the  company  of  better  men  than  my  selfe; 
I  shall  also  meete  with  some  madde  knaves  in  that  place, 
and  so  long  as  I  shall  not  sit  there  alone,  my  care  is  the 
lesse."  At  length  he  sank  so  low  that  he  had  for  a 
mistress  a  sister  of  a  thief  called  Cutting  Ball,  who  was 
hanged  for  his  rascality.  A  genius,  however,  finds 
cause  for  expression  in  every  environment ;  soon  he  was 
exposing  the  tricks  of  these  scamps  in  a  series  of  pam- 
phlets as  realistic  as  could  be  desired.  All  this,  be  it  re- 
membered, before  the  age  of  thirty-two;  in  that  year 
he  was  a  worn-out  man.  Picked  up  in  a  drunken  stupor 
and  carried  into  a  shoemaker's  house,  he  there  in  his 
dying  hours  wrote  his  Repentance  and  Groat's  Worth  of 
Wit,  frank  and  rather  humble  confessions  for  so  proud 

154 


I 


IXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

a  being,  but  dealing  rather  bitter  blows  to  Shakespeare 
and  other  ''plagiarists." 

Greene  is  even  more  inventive  in  style  than  Lyly. 
There  is  an  enormous  use  of  similes,  metaphors,  and  far- 
fetched comparisons.  Page  after  page  is  crowded  with 
the  supposed  similarities  between  Nature  and  man  (or, 
rather,  women).  ''The  agate,  be  it  never  so  white 
without,  yet  it  is  full  of  black  strokes  within.''  *'The 
greener  the  alisander  leaves  be,  the  more  bitter  is  the 
sap."  Euphues  himself  would  have  been  surprised  at 
the  utter  impossibility  of  the  geography,  history,  botany, 
and  zoology.  A  thousand  years  are  as  but  a  day  when 
it  is  past.  Early  Greeks  talk  of  Mahomet;  Bohemians 
go  to  the  oracle  of  Apollo;  ships  sail  out  of  Bohemia; 
and  sons  go  away  for  thirty  years  and  return  to  fall  in 
love  with  their  still  beautiful  mothers.  In  morality 
Greene  completely  out-preached  Lyly;  every  "love-pam- 
phlet" states  clearly  its  ethical  purpose.  In  Mamillia 
we  are  told  to  beware  of  * '  the  shadows  of  lewde  luste ' ' ; 
in  the  Mirror  of  Modesty  we  see  how  God  "plagueth  the 
bloudthirstie  hypocrites  with  deserved  punishments"; 
Pandosto  informs  us  that  truth  will  out  in  time.  And 
always,  pray  remember,  England  comes  in  for  its  full 
share  of  glory;  other  women  are  hypocrites,  painted, 
lustful  creatures,  but  English  ladies  are  prayerful, 
saintly,  angelic. 

What  are  the  plots  unfolded  in  these  stories  so  scornful 
of  fact  ?  In  Arhasto  an  old  man  found  in  the  Island  of 
Candia,  being  prevailed  upon  to  tell  his  tale,  states  that 
he  is  Arbasto,  once  King  of  Denmark,  and  once  so  pow- 
erful that  he  thought  to  conquer  France.  During  a 
three-months'  truce  in  his  siege  of  Orleans,  he  falls  in 

155 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

love  with  the  French  king's  daughter,  Doralicia,  who 
scorns  him ;  while  her  sister,  Myrania,  becomes  possessed 
of  a  wild  passion  for  him.  As  Jusserand  says,  *' Arbasto 
continues  loving  and  Doralicia  perseveres  in  her  cold- 
ness; they  meet  once  and  argue  one  against  the  other 
with  the  help  of  salamanders  and  scorpions,  and  empty 
their  whole  herbaria  over  each  other's  head;  but  things 
remain  in  stata.''  At  length  Arbasto  by  trickery  is 
thrown  into  prison;  his  army  is  defeated;  he  is  con- 
demned to  be  executed  within  ten  days.  This  is  Myra- 
nia's  opportunity.  She  entices  the  jailer  to  her  room 
and  causes  him  to  fall  into  a  pit,  where  he  dies.  Arbasto 
promises  to  marry  her,  and  they  escape  to  Denmark. 
He  still  loves  Doralicia,  however;  but  her  anger  is  so 
great  that  she  sends  dreadfully  Euphuistie  answers  to 
all  his  entreaties.  Then,  alas,  Myrania  finds  the  letters ; 
she  dies  of  a  broken  heart;  and  her  father  dies  of  sor- 
row over  her  death.  Doralicia  now  becomes  queen,  dis- 
covers that  she  really  loves  Arbasto ;  but  now  he  in  his 
turn,  sends  her  scornful  answers.  She  dies  of  a  broken 
heart.  Then  Arbasto 's  closest  friend  seizes  the  Danish 
throne,  and  the  king  retires  to  Candia,  where,  like  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  he  seems  shaken  with  a  frequent  agony 
to  tell  his  story.  All  of  which  is  very  sad  indeed — that 
is,  so  many  deaths  in  the  family. 

Pandosto,  known  to-day  as  a  source  of  Shakespeare's 
Winter's  Tale,  is  still  more  impossible.  Pandosto  is 
King  of  Bohemia,  and,  as  Bohemia  is  not  well  known, 
all  sorts  of  tricks  may  occur  there.  The  incidents  and 
the  Euphuistie  heart-throbs  seem  to  be  the  main  purpose 
of  such  a  story ;  there  is  little  or  no  logical  development 
of  emotion ;  the  characters  simply  decide  to  do  a  thing, 

156 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

and  do  it.  Menaphon,  Camillas  Alarum  to  Slumbering 
Euphues  in  his  Melancholy  Cell  at  Silexedra  is  perhaps 
the  best  known,  to-day,  of  Greene's  fantastic  plots,  and 
is  indeed  one  of  the  best  fictions  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  Even  though  exaggerated  and 
utterly  impossible,  it  is,  because  of  its  pastoral  scenes, 
soliloquies,  songs,  and  bits  of  verse,  a  very  pretty  piece 
of  work.  Princess  Sephestia  and  her  son,  having  been 
banished  by  Damocles,  King  of  Arcadia,  come  to  the 
land  belonging  to  the  shepherd,  Menaphon,  where  her 
husband,  Maximus,  has  already  come  and  assumed  the 
name  Melicertus.  Sephestia  now  takes  to  herself  the 
name  Samela,  and  at  once  becomes  the  object  of  several 
violent  courtships.  Her  husband,  not  recognizing  her, 
makes  love,  is  in  a  great  passion  about  her,  and  ex- 
presses his  turbulent  heart  in  such  language  as — 

**  Mistress  of  all  eyes  that  glance  but  at  the  excellence 
of  your  perfection,  sovereign  of  all  such  as  Venus  hath 
allowed  for  lovers,  JEnone's  over-match,  Arcadia's 
comet,  Beauty's  second  comfort,  all  hail!  Seeing  you 
sit  like  Juno  when  she  first  watched  her  white  heifer 
on  the  Lincen  downs,  as  bright  as  silver  Phoebe  mounted 
on  the  high  top  of  the  ruddy  element,  I  was,  by  a  strange 
attractive  force,  drawn,  as  the  adamant  draws  the  iron, 
or  the  jet  the  straw,  to  visit  your  sweet  self  in  the  shade, 
and  afford  you  such  company  as  a  poor  swain  may  yield 
without  offense;  which,  if  you  shall  vouch  to  deign  of, 
I  shall  be  as  glad  of  such  accepted  service  as  Paris  was 
first  of  his  best  beloved  paramour." 

Menaphon  is  no  less  Euphuistic  in  his  adoration.  The 
lady  favors,  however,  her  former  husband,  and  doubt- 
less he  would  have  married  her  again  had  not  her  son, 

157 


t 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Pleusidippus,  who  had  been  stolen  by  pirates  and  reared 
by  the  King  of  Thessaly,  come  back  and  fallen  in  love 
with  her.  To  complicate  matters,  her  father  hears  of 
this  Samela's  beauty  and  also  arrives  to  sue  for  her  af- 
fection. In  his  violence,  the  king  is  about  to  execute 
Maximus  and  Pleusidippus,  as  the  shortest  way  to  rid 
himself  of  rivals,  when  the  Delphian  oracles  reveal  the 
secret,  and  all  are  happy,  except  Menaphon,  who  be- 
comes reconciled,  however,  to  his  former  love,  Pesana. 
Time  and  the  ravages  of  age  count  for  nothing;  the 
public  cared  only  for  the  love  and  the  deeds  and  the 
Euphuism. 

Philomela  is  perhaps  better  because  less  prolix  and 
because  of  the  real  personality  of  at  least  one  of  the 
characters.  Phillippo  Medici  extremely  jealous  of  his 
beautiful  wife,  Philomela,  and  believing  that  '*  women 
are  most  heart-hollow  when  they  are  most  lip-holy," 
persuades  his  friend,  Lutesio,  to  test  her  virtue.  Hair- 
splitting, Euphuistic,  and  botanical  and  biological  ar- 
guments now  occur  between  this  friend  and  the  wife; 
but  her  purity  remains  unstained.  Phillippo  now  hires 
two  slaves  to  swear  that  his  wife  is  unfaithful,  and  she 
is  banished  to  Palermo.  The  Duke  of  Milan  exposes 
all  this;  the  husband,  seeking  her,  rashly  accuses  him- 
self of  a  murder  in  Palermo,  and  is  being  tried,  when 
his  wife,  to  shield  him,  declares  herself  the  criminal. 
Of  course,  both  are  proved  innocent.  Then  Phillippo 
very  foolishly  dies  of  ecstasy  and  Philomela  lives  a 
virtuous  widow  all  the  remainder  of  her  life.  Despite 
the  ridiculous  plot,  it  brings  forward  a  forceful  char- 
acter in  the  person  of  Philomela.    Phillippo  is  exagger- 

158 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

ated  in  his  jealousy;  but  the  wife  is  effective  in  her 
firmness,  restraint,  endurance,  and  undying  affection. 

These,  then,  are  the  fanciful  sketches  that  Shake- 
speare readers  pored  over.  And  yet  the  man  who 
could  write  these  impossible  dreams  could  portray 
thieves  and  rascals  with  a  realism  that  shows  him 
clearly  the  forerunner  of  Defoe.  In  his  Blacke  Bookes 
Messenger,  Laying  Open  the  Life  and  Death  of  Ned 
Browne,  One  of  the  Most  Notable  of  Cutpurses  (1590) ,- 
he  shows  his  genius  for  unsparing  details,  while  in  his 
Quaint  Dispute  between  Velvet  Breeches  and  Clothe 
Breeches  (1592)  we  find  the  same  blunt,  keen-eyed  real- 
ism. The  latter  book  is  a  dispute  between  the  old  Eng- 
land and  its  homely  honesty  and  the  new  England  with 
its  foreign  airs  and  antics.  See  how  the  barber  ''comes 
out  with  his  fustian  eloquence  and,  making  a  low  conge, 
saith : 

'*  'Sir,  will  you  have  your  worships  haire  cut  after 
the  Italian  manner,  shorte  and  round,  and  then  frounst 
with  the  curling  yrons,  to  make  it  look  like  a  halfe 
moone  in  a  miste  ?  or  like  a  Spanyard,  long  at  the  eares 
and  curled  like  the  two  endes  of  an  old  cast  periwig?  or 
will  you  be  Frenchified,  with  a  love  locke  downe  to  your 
shoulders,  wherein  you  may  weare  your  mistresse 
favour?  The  English  cut  is  base,  and  gentlemen  scome 
it,  novelty  is  daintye;  speake  the  woord,  sir,  and  my 
sissars  are  ready  to  execute  your  worships  will.'  " 

We  may  not,  for  the  present,  linger  longer  with  the 
witty,  comical,  and  facetious  Greene.  Suffice  to  say 
that  he  proved  the  financial  possibilities  of  novel-writ- 
ing;   for,    according    to    Nash,    publishers    considered 

159 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

themselves  '^  blest  to   pay   Greene   dear  for  the  very 
dregs  of  his  wit." 

FORD 

Such  success  meant,  of  course,  another  host  of  imi- 
tators. Of  these  Emmanuel  Ford  was  one  of  the  most 
important.  Using  less  Euphuism,  he  displayed  more 
improbability  and  far  more  immorality,  and  thus  man- 
aged to  secure  a  wide  reading  for  nearly  one  hundred 
years.  His  first  novel,  Parismus,  the  Renowned  Prince 
of  Bohemia  (1598),  may  be  presented  as  a  sample  of 
them  all.  Here  are  very  much  the  usual  romantic  ad- 
ventures in  the  usual  impossible  land.  Parismus  meets 
Laurana  at  a  masque,  and  after  much  flowery  conver- 
sation the  couple  exchange  vows  of  love.  Hear  a  few 
of  her  affectionate  words:  ^^My  lord,  I  assure  you,  that 
at  such  time  as  I  sawe  you  comming  first  into  this  court, 
my  heart  was  then  surprised,  procured  as  I  think  by  the 
destinies,  that  ever  since  I  have  vowed  to  rest  yours.'' 
The  two  then  meet  at  night  in  a  garden,  a  la  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  except  that  Parismus  comes  in  his  nightgown. 
He  climbs  the  wall — ^which  must  have  been  rather  dif- 
ficult in  his  flowing  garment — and  the  lovers  embrace 
until  morning  ''to  the  unspeakable  joy  and  comfort  of 
them  both."  Now  comes,  however,  a  rival,  Sicanus. 
Parismus  turns  outlaw,  wages  war  against  Sicanus,  and' 
at  length  marries  Laurana  in  the  Temple  of  Diana. 

BRETON 

Another  imitator  of  Greene  was  Nicholas  Breton 
(1542-1626),  who,  almost  dropping  Euphuism,  used 
more  immorality  in  its  stead,  and  whose  Miseries  of, 

160 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

MavilUa,  with  its  pictures  of  low  life,  is  another  proph- 
ecy of  the  coming  of  a  Defoe.  A  more  romantic  ef- 
fort is  his  Strange  Fortunes  of  Two  Excellent  Princes 
(1600),  in  which  a  son  and  a  daughter  famous  for  their 
beauty  and  intellect  are  married  to  two  other  youngsters 
famous  for  the  same  qualities.  That  is  all.  What  else 
is  there,  after  all,  in  many  a  novel  ?  Such  a  book,  with 
all  its  simplicity  and  prolixity,  served  to  present  even 
at  that  early  date  the  germ  of  the  society  novel.  Then, 
too,  in  1603  Breton  wrote  a  volume  of  imaginary  let- 
ters, A  Poste  mth  a  Packet  of  Mad  Letters,  and  here 
again  are  shown  the  possibilities  of  that  style  of  fiction 
later  to  make  Richardson's  Pamela  so  far-famed.  Per- 
haps of  still  more  significance  in  the  progress  of  fiction 
was  his  The  Good  and  the  Bad  (1616),  containing  little 
pictures  of  such  characters  as  a  knave,  a  virgin,  a  para- 
site, etc. 

CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

Such  collections  may  have  lacked  the  element  of  plot, 
but  they  were  studies  in  personality,  and  they  could 
not  but  impress  readers  with  the  need  and  the  possi- 
bilities of  character  portrayal  in  impressive  story-tell- 
ing. And  such  collections  were  numerous  in  the 
early  seventeenth  century.  Hall's  Characters  of  Vir- 
tues and  Vices  appeared  in  1608;  Overbury's  Characters 
came  in  1614;  Earle's  Microcosmographie  startled  by 
its  monstrous  title  in  1638.  Surely  all  the  elements  of 
the  true  novel  were  rapidly  gathering  for  a  master 
hand:  the  love  theme,  the  pictures  of  different  stages 
of  society,  the  study  of  character  and  personality,  the 
use  of  discourse  or  conversation,  the  presentation  of 
11  161 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

scenic  background,  even  some  analysis  of  emotion.  But 
the  time  was  not  yet  ripe  for  that  master  hand.  Not 
until  courtiers  had  spun  their  airy  nothings;  not  until 
the  prisoner  of  Bedford  jail  had  told  of  the  struggles 
of  the  human  soul;  not  until  the  London  bricklayer, 
soldier  and  journalist,  Defoe,  had  shown  humanity 
without  delusions,  would  the  English  world  be  ready 
for  the  plausible  story  of  a  plausible  being. 

JL.ODGE 

Bosalynde.  Euphues^  Golden  Legacie:  Found  after 
His  Death  in  His  Cell  at  Silexedra,  Bequeathed  to  Phil- 
autus'  Bonnes  Nursed  Tip  with  Their  Father  in  England. 
Fetched  from  the  Canaries  hy  T.  L,  Gent,  *'T.  L*"  is, 
of  course,  no  other  than  Thomas  Lodge,  and  the  story 
no  other  than  the  one  so  beautifully  presented  in  Shake- 
speare's  As  You  Like  It,  A  curious  and  versatile  fel- 
low, this  man  Lodge.  Born  in  London,  the  son  of  a  rich 
merchant  afterwards  Lord  Mayor,  he  was  educated  at 
Oxford,  practised  law,  became  a  corsair,  traveled  far, 
and  while  at  sea  wrote  romances,  such  as  The  Margarite 
of  America  and  the  famous  Bosalynde,  He  engaged  in 
privateering  expeditions  in  the  South  Sea,  wrote  dramas 
and  poems  that  were  the  admiration  of  London,  and  in 
his  later  years  settled  down  as  a  physician  in  that  city, 
and  died  of  the  plague  in  1625. 

Here  we  have  a  charming  pastoral  tale,  elevated  in 
tone,  dramatic  at  times,  beautiful  in  many  scenes.  Eu- 
phuism is  still  present,  but  not  to  a  degree  that  mars. 
Reading  the  preface,  one  might  judge  that  a  bloody 
tragedy  is  about  to  be  enacted.  Lodge  wants  the  world 
to   understand   that  he   is   before   all   else,    a  soldier. 

162 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

'^Eoome  for  a  souldier  and  a  sailer  that  gives  you  the 
fruits  of  his  labours  that  he  wrote  in  the  ocean ! ' '  But 
soon  the  tone  becomes  less  warlike,  and  we  find  our- 
selves listening  to  the  same  story  that  old  Chaucer  in- 
tended to  use  and  did  leave  in  a  rough  draft  known  as 
the  Cook's  Tale,  the  same  story  that  Shakespeare  deemed 
worthy  of  imbuing  with  such  mystic  charm  in  his  wood- 
land comedy. 

We  are  again  led  into  an  imaginary  and  impossible 
kingdom  where  reigns  the  tyrant,  Torismund,  who  has 
driven  the  rightful  monarch  to  Arden  Forest  for  refuge. 
The  latter 's  daughter,  Rosalind,  is  kept  captive  for 
some  time;  but  suddenly  Torismund  banishes  her,  and 
she,  dressed  as  a  page,  wanders  away  to  Arden  with 
Alinda,  the  usurper's  daughter,  who  has  determined  not 
to  be  separated  from  her.  The  couple,  approaching 
Arden  Forest,  find  shepherds  who  pipe  sweetly  and  dis- 
course in  Latin  about  various  abstruse  questions.  It  is 
beautifully  improbable.  '*For  a  shepheards  life,  oh! 
mistruse,"  exclaims  one,  '*did  you  but  live  a  while  in 
their  content,  you  would  saye  the  court  were  rather  a 
place  of  sorrowe  than  of  solace.  .  .  .  Care  cannot 
harbour  in  our  cottages,  nor  doc  our  homely  couches 
know  broken  slumbers." 

Now  the  love-story  begins.  A  shepherdess,  Phoebe,  is 
loved  by  disconsolate  Montanus;  but  she  falls  in  love 
with  Rosalind,  who,  be  it  remembered,  is  acting  the  part 
of  a  boy.  This,  of  course,  gives  Rosalind  opportunity 
for  advice  couched  in  most  flowirg  l.inguage.  ** Be- 
cause thou  art  beautiful,  be  not  so  coye:  as  there  is 
nothing  more  faire  so  there  is  nothing  more  fading,  as 
momentary  as  the  shadows  which  grow  from  a  cloudie 

163 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

sunne.  Such,  my  faire  shepheardesse,  as  disdaine  in 
youth  desire  in  age,  and  then  are  they  hated  in  the 
winter  that  might  have  been  loved  in  the  prime.  A 
wrinkled  maid  is  like  a  parched  rose  that  is  cast  up  in 
coffers  to  please  the  smell,  not  worn  in  the  hand  to  con- 
tent the  eye."  After  many  heart-throbs  and  descrip- 
tions of  picturesque  woodlands  and  piping  shepherds, 
matters  begin  to  approach  the  inevitable  happy  ending. 
Eosalind  is  recognized  by  her  father;  Phoebe,  finding 
her  heart's  desire  to  be  a  woman,  goes  back  to  her  re- 
joicing Montanus ;  the  usurping  king  is  driven  from  the 
throne;  Arden  Forest  is  full  of  happiness.  Through- 
out the  book  there  is  but  little  character  growth  or  anal- 
ysis of  emotion.  Indeed,  the  characters  are  all  too 
**nice"  at  the  beginning  to  be  any  better  at  the  end. 
Wherein  lies  its  charm,  then?  With  its  freshness  and 
its  freedom  of  forest  life,  it  is  a  story  of  dreamland,  a 
portrayal  of  what  men  would  like  to  see,  a  vision  of  man 
and  nature  in  harmony  and  love. 

SIDNEY 

Few  indeed  are  the  men  in  harmony  with  Nature. 
There  lived  in  Elizabethan  days  a  soul  that  seemed  to 
be  in  harmony  not  only  with  Nature,  but  with  all  things. 
The  most  beloved  man  of  that  era  was  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
(1554-1586).  ^*  Gentle  Sir  Philip  Sidney,"  cries 
Nash  in  his  Pierce  Penniless,  'Hhou  knewest  what  be- 
longed to  a  scholar ;  thou  knewest  what  pains,  what  toil, 
what  travel  conduct  to  perfection;  well  could 'st  thou 
give  every  virtue  his  encouragement,  every  art  his  due, 
every  writer  his  desert,  cause  none  more  virtuous,  witty, 
or  learned  than  thyself.    But  thou  art  dead  in  thy 

164 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

grave,  and  hast  left  too  few  successors  of  thy  glory,  too 
few  to  cherish  the  sons  of  the  Muses,  or  water  those 
budding  hopes  with  their  plenty,  which  thy  bounty  erst 
planted."  Men  had  it  engraved  upon  their  tombs  that 
they  had  been  friends  of  Sidney;  the  eulogies  and 
poems  on  his  death  filled  volumes ;  and  when  that  death 
occurred  in  his  thirty-second  year  England  mourned  for 
months. 

Born  in  Penshurst  Castle,  Kent,  the  son  of  the 
Viceroy  of  Ireland  and  a  relative  of  the  Earl  of  War- 
wick and  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  he  was  educated  at 
Oxford,  was  in  France  in  1572  as  a  courtier  of  Charles 
IX,  traveled  widely  through  Southern  Europe,  and  re- 
turned in  1575  to  Elizabeth's  court,  one  of  the  most 
versatile,  witty,  and  useful  men  in  all  the  kingdom. 
William  of  Orange  declared  him  *'one  of  the  ripest  and 
greatest  counsellors  of  State  that  lived  in  Europe";  he 
was  the  joy  of  Elizabeth's  islands.  It  was  while  with 
Elizabeth  at  Chartley  that  he  first  saw  the  beautiful 
twelve-year-old  girl,  Penelope  Devereux,  daughter  of 
the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  then  and  there  began  the  tragedy 
of  his  life.  They  loved  and  doubtless  would  have  mar- 
ried had  he  not  delayed  the  occasion  until  her  father 
compelled  her  to  marry  Lord  Rich  in  1581.  Then  their 
love  was  wilder  than  ever.  It  was  under  such  a  strain 
of  emotion  that  the  noble  sonnets  of  Astrophel  and 
Stella  were  written,  and  it  was  because  of  this  very 
strain  that  Sidney  plunged  more  earnestly  into  the  ac- 
tivities of  the  day  and  soon  became  one  of  the  most 
widely  known  men  of  the  sixteenth  century.  And 
what  became  of  Penelope?  She  had  seven  children  by 
Lord  Rich,  then  became  the  mistress  of  Lord  Mountjoy, 

165 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and  had  five  more  children,  and  in  spite  of  her  loose 
life  received  many  dedications  as  the  lady  of  the  son- 
nets. 

Unluckily  for  himself,  but  fortunately  for  literature, 
Sidney  opposed  any  effort  to  marry  Elizabeth  to  a 
Frenchman,  and,  having  incurred  the  wrath  of  the 
powerful,  he  retired  for  a  time  to  his  sister's  home  at 
Wilton.  There  in  1580  he  wrote  the  Arcadia,  ''a  trifle 
and  that  triflingly  handled,"  so  he  himself  wrote  to  this 
sister,  the  Countess  of  Pembroke.  Eestored  to  popu- 
larity at  court,  he  became  a  member  of  Parliament  in 
1581  and  1584,  in  1583  married  the  daughter  of  Sir 
Francis  Walsingham,  governor  of  Flushing  in  the  Neth- 
erlands, and  died  in  1586  of  a  wound  received  at  the 
Battle  of  Zutphen. 

The  Arcadia,  written  in  1580,  was  not  published  until 
after  his  death.  Much  of  the  work  was  done  in  the 
presence  of  his  sister;  the  remainder  was  sent  to  her, 
sheet  by  sheet,  as  written.  Sidney  commanded  her  to 
destroy  it  as  soon  as  read,  for  he  considered  it  almost 
unworthy  of  his  pen.  And  yet  its  beauty  of  language 
and  scene,  its  daintiness  of  love,  its  emotions,  its  high 
chivalry,  were  destined  to  make  Arcadianism  victor  over 
Euphuism,  and  to  cause  the  name  of  Sidney  to  be  syn- 
onymous to  this  day  with  Arcadian  loveliness. 

Doubtless  the  chief  trait  of  Sidney's  is  beauty.  He 
found  it  in  Nature,  in  literature,  in  man,  in  woman,  and 
in  life  in  general.  He  could  extract  it  where  other  men 
found  only  the  commonplace.  The  sonnets  of  Astro- 
phel  and  Stella  are  imbued  with  it;  his  Apology  for 
Poetry  contains  the  same  sweetness  and  light;  the  Ar- 
cadia is  filled  with  it.     It  is  beautiful  thought  in  beau- 

166 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

tiful  language  about  beautiful  things.  It  is  the  poet's 
mind  endeavoring  to  express  itself  with  the  freedom 
of  prose.  *'It  is  not  riming  and  versing,"  he  declares, 
'*that  maketh  a  poet,  no  more  than  a  long  gowne  maketh 
an  advocate;  who  though  he  pleaded  in  armor  should 
be  an  advocate  and  no  soldiour."  He  found  a  joy  in 
high  and  in  low.  We  all  remember  his  sentiment  about 
the  folk-ballads  so  scorned  by  the  aristocracy  of  his  day. 
'*I  never  heard  the  olde  song  of  Percy  and  Douglas 
that  I  found  not  my  heart  mooved  more  than  with  a 
trumpet :  and  yet  it  is  sung  by  some  blind  crouder  with 
no  rougher  voyce  than  rude  stile."  If  there  were  no 
other  prominent  qualities,  this  joyful  sense  of  beauty 
would  keep  alive  the  Arcadia. 

But  what  manner  of  fiction  is  this  famous  book?  As 
in  Euphues,  Rosalynde,  and  most  of  the  other  narratives 
of  the  period,  the  active  characters  are  all  of  high  and 
noble  blood.  True,  shepherds  are  there;  but  as  Jusser- 
and  points  out,  they  are  **for  decoration  and  ornament, 
to  amuse  the  princes  with  their  songs,  and  to  pull  them 
out  of  the  water  when  they  are  drowning. ' '  *  Basilius, 
King  of  Arcadia,  retires  to  the  forest  with  his  wife, 
Gynecia,  and  two  daughters,  Philoclea  and  Pamela. 
Here,  at  length,  come  Pyrocles,  Prince  of  Macedon,  and 
Musidorus,  Prince  of  Thessaly,  who  fall  in  love  with 
the  daughters  in  the  order  named.  Pyrocles  dresses  as 
a  woman  and  proclaims  himself  an  Amazon.  Now  be- 
gins a  long  and  loose  series  of  adventures,  fights,  secret 
meetings,  love-ravings,  shepherd  scenes,  songs,  phil- 
osophical discourses,  what  not.  Pyrocles  is  so  beautiful 
as  a  woman  that  the  old  King  Basilius  quite  loses  his 

^English  'Novel  m  the  Time  of  8hakes(pea/re,  p.  236. 

167 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

head  and  falls  madly  in  love  with  the  Amazon;  while 
the  queen,  Gyneeia,  discovering  that  the  woman  is  no 
woman,  falls  even  more  desperately  in  love  with  him 
and  grows  insanely  jealous  of  her  daughter,  Philoclea. 
Meanwhile  Musidorus  is  making  good  progress  in  his 
courtship  of  Pamela.  She,  of  course,  must  withstand 
him  for  a  time;  but  after  he  has  suffered  serious  vicis- 
situdes she  begins  to  soften,  and  the  way  is  soon  clear 
for  a  wedding  in  that  vicinity. 

''This  last  dayes  danger  having  made  Pamela's  love 
discerne  what  a  losse  it  should  have  suffered  if  Dorus 
had  beene  destroyed,  bred  such  tendemesse  of  kindnesse 
in  her  toward  him  that  she  could  no  longer  keepe  love 
from  looking  out  through  her  eyes,  and  going  forth  in 
her  words;  whom  before  as  a  close  prisoner  she  had  to 
her  heart  only  committed:  so  as  finding  not  onely  by 
his  speeches  and  letters,  but  by  the  pitifuU  oration  of 
a  languishing  behaviour  and  the  easily  deciphered  char- 
acter of  a  sorrowfuU  face,  that  despaire  began  now  to 
threaten  him  destruction,  she  grew  content  both  to  pitie 
him,  and  let  him  see  she  pitied  him,  ...  by  mak- 
ing her  owne  beautifuU  beames  to  thaw  away  the  former 
ycinesse  of  her  behaviour." 

At  length  the  old  king,  in  despair,  takes  a  sleeping 
potion;  his  queen  is  accused  of  his  death;  and  Musido- 
rus, having  been  revealed  as  a  man,  is  accused  of  com- 
plicity. At  the  proper  moment,  however,  the  king 
returns  to  life;  explanations  are  made;  and  Basilius 
declares  his  queen  to  be  the  most  virtuous  woman  in  the 
world,  which  she  knows  she  is  not,  but  secretly  resolves  i 
to  deserve  such  praise. 

All  this,  be  it  remembered,  takes  place  in  an  ideal 

168 


i 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

land,  where  every  meadow  is  a  shaven  green,  and  where 
palaces  are  found  in  the  deep  woodlands.  '  *  There  were 
hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately 
trees:  humble  vallies  whose  base  estate  seemed  com- 
forted with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers:  medowes 
enameled  with  all  sorts  of  eie-pleasing  flowers:  thickets 
which  being  lined  with  most  pleasant  shade  were  wit- 
nessed so  too,  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  manie  well- 
tuned  birds:  each  pasture  stored  with  sheep  feeding 
with  sober  securitie,  while  the  prettie  lambes  with  bleat- 
ing oratorie  craved  the  dammes  comfort:  here  a  shep- 
heards  boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old: 
there  a  young  shepheardesse  knitting  and  with  all  sing- 
ing, and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  comforted  her  hands 
to  worke,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice's  mu- 
sicf 

Nor  are  the  women  less  beautiful  in  this  land  of 
dreams.  See  Philoclea  on  her  couch.  *'She  at  that 
time  lay,  as  the  heate  of  that  country  did  well  suffer, 
upon  the  top  of  her  bed,  having  her  beauties  eclipsed 
with  nothing  but  with  her  faire  smocke,  wrought  all  in 
flames  of  ash-colour  silk  and  gold;  lying  so  upon  her 
right  side  that  the  left  thigh  down  to  the  foot  yielded 
her  delightfuU  proportion  to  the  full  view,  which  was 
scene  by  the  helpe  of  a  rich  lampe  which  thorow  the 
curtaines  a  little  drawne  cast  forth  a  light  upon  her,  as 
the  moone  doth  when  it  shines  into  a  thinne  wood.'' 

These  are  the  beings  that  live  and  love  in  Arcadia. 
Do  they  grow  in  grace?  No;  it  is  unnecessary.  They 
are  perfection  at  the  beginning.  All  are  tender;  all 
are  modest;  all  are  brave.  They  can  stand  intense 
hardships,  battles,  adventures;  but  have  the  disadvan- 

169 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tage  of  being  liable  to  die  of  love  at  any  moment.  But 
though  he  makes  his  characters  rather  stationary,  Sidney 
makes  a  sincere  effort  to  put  before  us  clear  portrayals 
of  them  as  they  are — and  ever  shall  be.  We  must  con- 
cede to  him  an  earnest  wish  to  give  true  pictures  of  the 
life  under  consideration,  whether  real  or  ideal.  Un- 
consciously perhaps,  he  drew  us  one  dramatic,  vibrating 
human  being — the  queen,  Gynecia.  She  is  one  of  the 
greater  women  of  fiction.  In  the  throes  of  a  love 
agony,  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  to  her  passion,  mur- 
derously jealous  of  her  own  child,  she  yet  despises  her- 
self, and  fights  a  soul  conflict  scarcely  found  in  any 
fiction  previous  to  the  work  of  Bunyan. 

*'0  virtue,"  she  cries,  ** where  doest  thou  hide  thy 
selfe?  What  hideous  thing  is  this  which  doth  eclipse 
thee?  or  is  it  true  that  thou  wert  never  but  a  vaine 
name,  and  no  esentiall  thing;  which  hast  then  left  thy 
professed  servant  when  she  had  most  neede  of  thy  lovely 
presence?  .  .  .  Alas,  alas,  said  she,  if  there  were  but 
one  hope  for  all  my  paines,  or  but  one  excuse  for  all 
my  faultinesse!  But  wretch  that  I  am,  my  torment  is 
beyond  all  succour,  and  my  evill  deserving  doth  exceed 
my  evill  fortune.  .  .  .  For  nothing  else  have  the 
winds  delivered  this,  strange  guest  to  my  country :  for 
nothing  else  have  the  destinies  reserved  my  life  to  this 
time,  but  that  onely  I,  most  wretched  I,  should  become 
a  plague  to  my  selfe  and  a  shame  to  woman-kind.  Yet 
if  my  desire,  how  unjust  soever  it  be,  might  take  effect, 
though  a  thousand  deaths  followed  it,  and  every  death 
were  followed  with  a  thousand  shames,  yet  should  not 
my  sepulchre  receive  me  without  some  contentment. 
But,  alas,  so  sure  I  am  that  Zelmane  is  such  as  can  an- 

170  i 


IP 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

swer  my  love ;  yet  as  sure  I  am  that  this  disguising  must 
needs  come  for  some  foretaken  conceit:  and  then, 
wretched  Gynecia,  where  canst  thou  find  any  small 
ground  plot  for  hope  to  dwell  upon  ?  No,  no,  it  is  Philo- 
clea  his  heart  is  set  upon,  it  is  my  daughter  I  have 
borne  to  supplant  me:  but  if  it  be  so,  the  life  I  have 
given  thee,  ungratefull  Philoclea,  I  will  sooner  with 
these  hands  bereave  thee  of  than  my  birth  shall  glory 
she  hath  bereaved  me  of  my  desires." 

The  conviction  comes  to  a  critical  reader  that  Sidney 
gave  too  free  a  rein  to  his  fancy.  There  is  no  restraint, 
no  logical  sequence  of  incidents,  few  inevitable  endings. 
There  is  little  Euphuism ;  but  this  effort  to  write  poetry 
in  prose  form  leads  to  excessive  ornamentation.  An- 
titheses meet  us  often :  the  repetition  of  certain  pleasing 
words  and  phrases,  the  repeated  accenting  of  certain 
parts  of  sentences,  the  strained  personification  of  the 
things  of  nature,  in  short,  the  excessive  use  of  conceits 
— these  jar  upon  the  ear  of  to-day. 

In  spite  of  this  the  book  is  a  volume  to  love.  Its  pop- 
ularity far  outlived  the  next  century.  In  the  Spectator 
of  April  12,  1711,  Addison  mentions  seeing  it  on  a  lady's 
table ;  there  were  two  editions  of  it  in  1721 ;  Eichardson 
shows  the  influence  of  it;  Cowper,  in  his  Tasl^  (Book  III, 
line  514)  praises  Sidney,  ** warbler  of  poetic  prose." 
It  was  abbreviated  and  sold  in  a  form  akin  to  the  chap- 
book;  portions  were  used  by  poets  for  themes,  as  were 
the  Argalus  and  Parthenia  adventures  by  Francis 
Quarles;  dramas  made  use  of  it,  such  as  Day's  lie  of 
Guls,  1606,  Shakespeare's  King  Lear,  Jonson's  Every 
Man  out  of  His  Humor,  Shirley's  Pastoral  called  the 
Arcadia,  1640,  and  Mountfort's  Zelmane;  Dekker,  in  his 

171 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Guls  Home  Booke,  advised  all  the  young  fellows  to 
*'hoarde  up  the  finest  play-scraps  you  can  get,  upon 
which  your  leane  wit  may  most  savourly  feede  for  want 
of  other  stuffe  when  the  Arcadian  and  Euphuized  gen- 
tlewomen have  their  tongures  sharpened  to  set  upon 
you." 

Books  never  heard  of  by  Sidney  were  published  over 
his  name;  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  as  the  inspirer  of 
the  story,  was  honored  with  innumerable  dedications. 
Sidney  had  left  several  of  the  love  affairs  unfinished, 
and  had  given  a  hint  to  future  writers  by  remarking 
that  these  unsettled  portions  ^^may  awake  some  other 
spirit  to  exercise  his  pen  in  that  wherewith  mine  is 
already  dulled."  The  hint  was  not  in  vain;  several 
quills  flowing  a  vivid  ink  undertook  to  complete  the 
story  in  such  volumes  as  Gervase  Markham's  English 
Arcadia,  1607,  Richard  Beling's  Sixth  Book  to  the 
Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia,  1624,  and  the  Con- 
tiniiation  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia,  written  by 
'^Mrs.  A.  W.,"  1651. 

Imitations,  supposedly  original  in  plot,  but  modeled 
on  the  Arcadian  style,  soon  appeared.  One  specimen 
gained  considerable  notice.  Lady  Mary  Wroath,  a 
niece  of  Sidney,  wrote  Urania  and  out-Sidneyed  Sidney 
in  twisting  of  phrases,  conceits,  and  love  affairs — all 
the  defects  but  none  of  the  genius.  Here  the  prince 
and  the  princess,  gorgeously  dressed,  live  in  a  Greek 
fairy-land,  and,  as  the  book  is  written  by  a  lady,  the 
descriptions  of  garments  are  minute  and  ravishing. 
Thus,  a  book  written  by  a  courtier  for  the  eyes  of  his 
noble  sister,  and  for  no  other,  completely  turned  the^ 
tide  of  English  fiction  and,  driving  a  stilted  form  of  J 

172 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

language  from  public  admiration,  brought  in  its  place 
a  flowery  and  ornate  descriptive  style,  beautiful,  luxu- 
rious, musical,  but  still  unnatural.  Not  until  the  days 
of  Defoe's  plain-spoken  words  did  this  massing  of  im- 
ages, figures,  and  harmonious  words  give  way  to  a  more 
precise  and  available,  even  if  less  lovely,  vehicle  of 
thought. 

NASH 

We  have  seen  how  nearly  every  form  of  the  novel, 
in  the  germ  at  least,  has  thus  far  been  attempted. 
Lyly  gave  us  life  among  the  socially  high  and  nobly 
thinking;  Lodge  and  Sidney  produced  romantic  and 
pastoral  tales;  Greene,  realistic  and  often  autobio- 
graphical, frequently  told  the  story  of  the  lowly  man 
and  even  of  the  rogue.  Indeed,  in  Greene  we  find 
plausible  adventures  put  down  in  a  matter-of-fact  way, 
— just  the  form  Defoe  was  to  develop  so  thoroughly  in 
another  century.  There  was  need  of  further  develop- 
ment along  these  practical  and  earthy  lines  before  the 
time  could  be  ripe  for  real  masterpieces  of  fiction,  and 
that  development  came  through  the  stories  known  as 
picaresque  tales.  These,  based  on  models  imported 
from  Spain,  set  fortli,  not  infrequently  without  en- 
thusiasm, almost  without  sentiment,  mere  statements  of 
facts  in  a  rascal's  life;  their  purpose  was,  at  times,  to 
expose  scamps  and  quacks  just  as  Jonson  did  in  his  Al- 
chemist, This  was  the  work  that  Thomas  Nash  under- 
took, and  it  was  a  field  extended  by  Defoe,  Richardson, 
Smollett,  and  Fielding,  and  glorified  by  Dickens. 

This  man,  Thomas  Nash  (1567-1600)  was  another 
specimen     of    happy-go-lucky     Elizabethan     manhood. 

173 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Educated  at  Cambridge,  he  was  a  student  of  keen  intel- 
lect and  extremely  wide  reading  in  several  languages, 
a  scholar  who  had  fine  literary  appreciation  and  who 
believed  that  *'Destinie  never  defames  herself e  but 
when  she  lets  an  excellent  poet  die.''  Yet,  he  was  a 
lover  of  laughter  and  perhaps  a  little  too  much  a  lover 
of  the  lowly.  He  maintained  that  every  story  should 
contain  plenty  of  strong  substance  and  rather  con- 
demned the  old  romances  for  this  very  lack  of  strength- 
ening material.  Writing  rapidly  and  often,  he  pro- 
duced such  pictures  of  actual  life  as  Anatomy  of 
Absurdity  (1589),  Pierce  Pennilesse,  His  Supplication  to 
the  Divell  (1592),  The  Unfortunate  Traveller,  or  the 
Life  of  Jack  Wilton  (1594),  and  The  Terrors  of  the 
Night  (1594) — books  not  exactly  dainty,  refined  or  ro- 
mantic, but  decidedly  full  of  meat.  Nash  boasts  that 
he  is  no  follower  of  Euphues,  yet  he  plays  with  words 
as  Lyly  did;  his  store  is  rich,  and  he  juggles  it  well. 
Undoubtedly  Jack  Wilton  is  his  most  famous  fiction; 
illogical  and  loose  as  it  is,  it  remains  the  best  English 
picaresque  story  before  the  days  of  Defoe.  Like  most 
tales  of  the  picaro,  or  scamp,  it  is  in  the  form  of  an 
autobiography  or  memoir;  such  a  form  but  aids  in  the 
effort  to  present  lifelike  portraits  of  lifelike  beings. 
This  Wilton  is  an  aristocratic  sort  of  knave.  A  friend 
of  Henry  YIII,  he  is  Intimate  with  royalty  at  the 
siege  of  Tournay.  But  even  in  such  company  his  native 
rascality  crops  out;  for  he  stoops  to  the  trick  of  victim- 
izing the  camp  sutler.  See  him  hoodwink  this  army 
Falstaff: 

''Why,"  exclaims  Jack,  approaching  his  purpose  by 
flattery,  ''you  are  everie  childs  felowe:  any  man  that 

174 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

comes  under  the  name  of  a  souldier  and  a  good  felowe, 
you  will  sitte  and  beare  companie  to  the  last  pot,  yea, 
and  you  take  in  as  good  part  the  homely  phrase  of: 
'Mine  host  heeres  to  you,'  as  if  one  saluted  you  by  all 
the  titles  of  your  baronie.  These  considerations,  I  saie, 
which  the  world  suffers  to  slip  by  in  the  channell  of 
carelessnes,  have  moved  me  in  ardent  zeale  of  your 
welfare  to  forewarne  you  of  some  dangers  that  have 
beset  you  and  your  barrels." 

Jack,  highly  amused  at  the  old  fellow's  terror,  takes 
another  drink  of  free  liquor  to  make  his  ''lie  run  glib 
to  his  journies  end,"  and  then  informs  the  sutler  that 
he  is  soon  to  be  accused  of  giving  military  secrets  to  the 
enemy  by  means  of  letters  hidden  in  wine  barrels.  Fal- 
staff  is  in  an  agony  of  fear.  What  's  to  be  done  ?  Jack 
suggests  that  he  make  himself  popular  among  the  sol- 
diers by  distributing  free  all  his  wines  and  liquors. 
This  advice  is  followed,  to  the  great  delight  of  Jack's 
comrades.  Thus,  whether  on  the  field  or  in  London, 
the  knave  is  forever  making  a  fool  of  somebody  else. 

The  volume  is  full  of  those  details  that  earlier  writers 
would  have  left  unnoticed,  and  that  Bunyan  and  Defoe 
later  showed  to  be  the  foundation  of.  realism.  Jack 
travels  much,  visits  London,  Rome,  Venice,  and  Flor- 
ence, and,  with  a  fine  unconcern  for  dates,  meets  More 
thinking  of  his  Utopiay  the  Earl  of  Surrey  conquering 
all  foes  for  the  sake  of  beautiful  Geraldine,  and  John  of 
Leyden  ascending  the  scaffold.  He  attaches  himself  to 
the  Earl  of  Surrey,  elopes  with  an  Italian  lady,  and 
assumes  the  earl's  title  himself.  He  is  accused  of  mur- 
der and  is  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  but  is  saved  by  an 
English  nobleman;  he  is  captured  by  Roman  Jews;  he 

175 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

sees  all  kinds  of  life  and  experiences  many  forms  of 
tragedy.  Not  a  few  scenes  are  intense  in  their  unspar- 
ing realism.  Note,  for  example,  the  encounter  of  Cut- 
wolf  and  his  victim: 

*' Though  I  knew  God  would  never  have  mercie  on 
mee  except  I  had  mercie  on  thee,  yet  of  thee  no  mercie 
would  I  have.  ...  I  tell  thee  I  would  not  have 
undertooke  so  much  toyle  to  gaine  heaven  as  I  have 
done  in  pursuing  thee  for  revenge.  .  .  .  Looke 
how  my  feete  are  blistered  with  following  thee  from 
place  to  place.  I  have  riven  my  throat  with  over- 
straining it  to  curse  thee.  I  have  ground  my  teeth  to 
powder  with  grating  and  grinding  them  together  for 
anger  when  anie  hath  nam'd  thee.  My  tongue  with 
vaine  threates  is  bolne  and  waxen  too  big  for  my 
mouth." 

The  victim  offered  to  do  anything  to  be  saved.  Then, 
the  fiendish  Cutwolf  bade  him  give  his  soul  to  the  devil, 
and  the  man  called  down  terrible  curses  upon  himself 
and  blasphemed  God.  The  blasphemer  then  with  his 
own  blood  wrote  a  contract  to  the  devil  and  uttered 
prayers  that  God  would  never  forgive  his  soul.  **My 
joints  trembled  and  quakt  with  attending  them,"  sayS; 
Cutwolf,  **my  haire  stood  upright,  and  my  hart  was 
turned  wholly  to  fire."  The  man's  soul  thus  being 
destroyed,  Cutwolf  shot  him  through  the  mouth  lest 
there  be  words  of  repentance,  and  the  revenge  was  ac- 
complished. ''His  body  being  dead  looked  as  black  as 
a  toad." 

This  scene  drives  Wilton  to  repentance,  and  having 
married  a  Venetian  woman,  he  returns  to  the  service  of 
the  English  king  and  leads  a  decent  life  henceforth. 

176 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

Here  is  a  direct  effort  to  tell  the  story  of  a  human 
being's  life, — ^not  an  Arthurian  knight's,  not  a  Euphu- 
istic  philosopher's,  not  an  Arcadian  lover's,  but  a 
breathing,  thinking  rogue's,  whose  soul,  far  from  sta- 
tionary, has  its  ups  and  downs  and  retrogression  and 
progress  toward  a  different  plane.  Thus  a  book  almost 
unnoticed  in  this  day  shows  a  long  step  forward  in  the 
evolution  of  fiction;  for  before  the  day  of  Defoe  only 
one  other  writer,  Bunyan,  gives  a  more  connected  and 
more  complete  story  of  the  life  of  a  fictitious  character. 
There  had  been  up  to  this  time  a  lack  of  logical  se- 
quence; this  Nash  partly  remedies.  He  makes  a  suc- 
cessful effort  to  produce  a  lengthy  and  sustained  chain 
of  possible  incidents.  He  omits  the  flowery  language 
of  the  past.  He  gives  us  no  improbable  scenery  nor 
sixteenth-century  Round  Table  knights.  He  wrote  the 
novel  of  actual  life  nearly  seventy  years  before  Defoe 
was  bom. 

CHETTLE 

Again,  there  were,  of  course,  imitations  of  this  sort 

of  fiction,  although  not  so  many  as  of  the  romantic. 

For  example,  Henry  Chettle — who  spent  a  great  deal 

of  his  time  in  jail  and  therefore  should  have  known 

something   about   rogues — wrote  Piers  Plainnes   Seven 

Yearcs  Prentiship   (1595).     Piers  is  a  shepherd  rascal 

in  the  midst  of  poetic  surroundings.     He  sits  down  and 

tells  us,  in  the  first  person,  what  he  knows  of  this  world 

of  men,  whether  kings  or  rustics,  princes  or  paupers. 

In  his  descriptions  of  low  life  he  is  barely  surpassed 

by  Nash,  and  in  his  pictures  of  the  aristocracy  we  find! 

the  same   sureness   and  confidence.     See   his  queen,   a 
12  177 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

fi^re  from  the  old  romances  thrust  in  among  the  things 
of  a  harsher  modern  world : 

^^On  her  head  she  wore  a  coronet  of  orientall  pearle; 
on  it  a  chaplet  of  variable  flowers  perfuming  the  ayre 
with  their  divers  odors,  thence  carelessly  descended  her 
amber  coloured  hair.  .  .  .  Her  buskins  were  richly 
wrought  like  the  Delphins  spangled  cabazines;  her 
quiver  was  of  unicornes  home,  her  darts  of  yvorie;  in 
one  hand  she  held  a  boare  speare,  the  other  guided  her 
Barbary  jennet,  proud  by  nature,  but  nowe  more  proud 
in  that  he  carried  natures  fairest  worke,  the  Easterne 
worlds  chief e  wonder." 

DEKKER 

Thomas  Dekker's  realistic  pamphlets  are  also  in  the 
Nash  fashion, — such  works  as  News  from  Hell  (1606), 
The  Belman  of  London  (1608),  and  the  Guls  Home 
Booke  (1609).  Here,  as  in  Greene  and  Nash,  are 
touches  of  the  pathetic  and  of  a  gentle  beauty;  often 
there  is  the  graceful  or  poetical;  but  the  most  notable 
trait  is  keen,  unsparing  observation.  Dekker  is  not 
overcome,  however,  by  the  roughness  or  harshness  of 
his  scenes.  See  this  *' goodly  fat  burger  .  .  .  with 
a  belly  arching  out  like  a  beere-barrell,  which  made  his 
legges,  that  were  thicke  and  short,  like  two  piles  driven 
under  London  bridge.  ...  In  some  corners  of  (his 
nose)  there  were  blewish  holes  that  shone  like  shelles  of 
mother  of  pearle;  .  .  .  others  were  richly  garnisht 
with  rubies,  chrisolites,  and  carbunkles,  which  glistered 
so  oriently  that  the  Hamburgers  offered  I  know  not 
how  many  dollars  for  his  companie  in  an  East-Indian 

178 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

voyage  to  have  stoode  a  nightes  in  the  poope  of  their 
Admirall  onely  to  save  the  charge  of  candles." 

Doubtless  Dekker's  most  famous  fiction  is  his  Guls 
Home  Book,  one  of  the  best  volumes  on  character  and 
manners  produced  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  cen- 
turies. Here  we  may  follow  a  gallant  through  the  Lon- 
don streets  and  observe  minutely  his  fads,  his  tricks, 
his  eccentricities,  his  shams,  his  human  longing  for  no- 
tice and  notoriety.  Here  he  is  in  the  playhouse  of 
Shakespeare's  day.  He  takes  a  seat  on  the  stage  in 
the  midst  of  the  actors  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
hide  half  the  action  from  the  hissing  audience.  ''What 
large  commings-in  are  pursd  up  by  sitting  on  the  stage  ? 
First  a  conspicuous  eminence  is  gotten ;  by  which  meanes 
the  best  and  most  essencial  parts  of  a  gallant  (good 
cloathes,  a  proportionable  legge,  white  hand,  the  Per- 
sian lock,  and  a  toUerable  beard)  are  perfectly  revealed. 
.  .  .  Present  not  your  selfe  on  the  stage,  especially 
at  a  new  play,  until  the  quaking  Prologue  hath,  by 
rubbing,  got  (color)  into  his  cheekes  and  is  ready  to 
give  the  trumpets  their  cue  that  hees  upon  point  to 
enter;  for  then  it  is  time,  as  though  you  were  one  of 
the  properties,  or  that  you  dropt  out  of  the  hangings, 
to  creepe  from  behind  the  arras  with  your  tripos  or 
three-footed  stoole  in  one  hand  and  a  teston  [six-pence] 
mounted  betweene  a  forefinger  and  a  thumbe  in  the 
other.  ...  It  shall  crowne  you  with  rich  commen- 
dations to  laugh  alowd  in  the  middest  of  the  most 
serious  and  saddest  scene  of  the  terriblest  tragedy ;  and 
to  let  that  clapper,  your  tongue,  be  tost  so  high  that  all 
the  house  may  ring  to  it.     .     .     .     Rise  with  a  screwd 

179 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and  discontented  face  from  your  stool  to  be  gone.     .     .     .^ 
And  being  on  your  feet,  sneake  not  away  like  a  coward ; 
but  salute  all  your  gentle  acquaintance  that  are  spred 
either  on  the  rushes  or  on  stooles  about  you;  and  draw 
what  troope  you  can  from  the  stage  after  you.     .     .     . " 

RISE   OF   PROSE 

And  now,  before  we  may  close  this  study  of  the 
fiction  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  we 
must  see  how  the  overstraining  of  this  fashionable  dis- 
play, the  endeavor  to  be  both  brave  and  dainty,  the 
mingling  of  impossible  romance  with  possible  realism 
brought  on  the  downfall  of  the  old  styles  of  story-tell- 
ing; and  further  see  how  the  humble  tales  from  the 
heart  of  a  scorned  street-preacher  were  to  bring  forth 
a  new  form  of  realism,  containing  in  addition  to  ex- 
ternal facts  an  introspectiveness,  an  analysis  of  emotion, 
a  touch  of  the  universal  soul  seemingly  impossible  to 
earlier  writers. 

Early  in  the  seventeenth  century  it  must  have  become 
apparent  to  many  observers  that  English  prose  was  fast 
coming  into  its  own.  Such  works  as  Eichard  Hooker's 
sermons,  the  Booh  of  Common  Prayer  (1550),  Fox's 
Book  of  Martyrs  (1563),  Holinshed's  Chronicle  (1577), 
North's  Plutarch  (1579),  Hakluyt's  Voyages  (1581), 
Raleigh's  writings,  Bacon's  Essays  (1597,  1625),  Sir 
Thomas  Browne 's  essays,  Taylor 's  Holy  Living  and  Holy 
Dying  (1650),  Eichard  Baxter's  /Sam^s^  Everlasting 
Rest  (1649),  Milton's  controversial  papers,  and  the  nu- 
merous descriptions  of  scenes  and  events  in  America 
compelled  deference  for  English  prose  from  even  the 
most   poetic   and   scholarly.     It   must   be   remembered, 

180 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

also,  that  the  old  folk-stories,  such  as  the  Robin  Hood 
legends,  Guy  of  Warwick,  Friar  Bacon,  and  Amadis 
of  Gaul,  were  now  frequently  reprinted,  and  the  com- 
mon reader  doubtless  learned  to  prefer  prose  to  poetry 
as  a  means  of  narrative. 

The  coming  of  the  Puritans  greatly  reduced  the  pub- 
lishing of  these  *Wain"  and  '^ungodly"  tales;  but 
among  more  aristocratic  circles  their  place  was  filled 
by  the  imported  French  fiction.  This  was  the  day  when 
Scudery  and  other  French  romancers  gained  an  immense 
influence  in  the  islands;  we  find  Polexandre  translated 
in  1647,  Cassandre  in  1652,  Le  Grand  Cyrus  in  1653  and 
Clelie  in  1656 ;  and  such  impossible  and  sometimes  truly 
'^ungodly"  stories  were  gladly  received  in  spite  of  the 
Puritans.  Many  of  these  translations  were  profusely 
illustrated,  and  must  have  been  expensive;  but  their 
sale  was  so  profitable  as  to  induce  many  men  and  women 
with  little  literary  ability  to  turn  their  hands  to  the 
task. 

DUCHESS  OP  NEWCASTLE 

Now,  as  a  result  of  this,  there  came  into  popularity  a 
strange  sort  of  refined  heroism.  The  old-time  heroes  men- 
tioned above  and  those  imported  from  Paris  were  made 
more  fashionable,  more  dainty,  more  particular  in  dress, 
more  stately  in  their  language,  much  more  philosophical, 
in  short,  very  civilized ;  and  these  new  traits  with  their 
primitive  bravery  made  them  the  admiration  of  the 
lady  readers  of  the  day.  And  the  ladies,  in  their  ad- 
miration, gathered  together  the  literary  dames,  damsels, 
and  gentlemen  of  the  neighborhood,  and  betook  them- 
selves to  translating  other  French  romances  and  at  length 

181 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

to  imitating  these.  Catherine  Phillips  was  a  noted 
leader  of  such  a  movement;  while  the  Duchess  of  New- 
castle, gathering  such  a  group  in  her  country  home, 
attempted  romances,  heroic  tales,  dialogues  of  wise  ad- 
vice, all  forms  known  to  man — or  to  her  ladyship  alone. 
Her  Sociable  Letters  (1664)  comes  close  to  being  a 
novel  on  the  Richardson  plan,  and  is  so  good  that  one 
can  see  some  slight  reason  for  the  enthusiastic  notoriety 
granted  her  by  seventeenth-century  aristocracy. 

BOYLE 

Among  the  devotees  of  this  French  heroic  daintiness 
or  dainty  heroism  the  three  most  important  were  Roger 
Boyle  (Earl  of  Orrery),  Mrs.  Manley,  and  Mrs.  Aphra 
Behn.  In  the  writings  of  these  three  one  might  find 
enough  passion  and  adventures  to  arouse  even  the  melan- 
choly Jacques,  enough  sentimentality  to  make  even  Jago 
weep,  and  enough  voluptuous  sin  to  make  even  Cleo- 
patra have  a  bad  taste  in  her  mouth.  Parthenissa 
(1664),  the  best  of  Boyle's  novels,  tells  of  a  hero,  Arta- 
banes,  a  Median  prince,  handsome  and  cultured,  who  at 
the  Parthian  court  falls  in  love  with  Parthenissa,  and 
does  all  sorts  of  wonderful  deeds  to  show  her  what  a 
man  he  is.  Parthenissa  seems,  however,  to  prefer  an- 
other, and  he  determines  to  be  a  hermit  on  the  Alpine 
peaks.  Pirates  change  his  plans  by  selling  him  as  a 
slave,  but  he  escapes  and  reveals  himself  as  the  historic 
Spartacus.  He  now  discovers  that  Parthenissa,  worried 
by  a  distasteful  lover,  has  taken  a  potion  which  causes 
her  to  appear  dead.  To  secure  divine  aid  he  goes  to 
the  Temple  of  Hieropolis  (wherever  that  may  be), 
*' where  the  queen  of  Love  had  settled  an  oracle  as 

182 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

famous  as  the  Deity  to  whom  it  was  consecrated." 
Artabanes  tells  his  misfortunes  to  the  priest ;  the  priest 
tells  his  in  reply  and  reveals  himself  as  the  father  of 
Caesar's  Nicomedes.  While  listening  to  this  long-winded 
story,  Artabanes  observes  a  young  knight  and  a  lady 
enter  a  neighboring  wood.  The  lady  is  the  exact  image 
of  his  Parthenissa !  The  poor  lover  is  in  bewilderment 
and  despair.  Was  it  she,  or  was  she  still  lying  asleep 
hundreds  of  miles  away,  or  had  she  died  and  was  this 
her  spirit?  We  shall  never  know.  Boyle  abruptly 
closes  the  tale  at  this  point.  Of  course  source-hunting 
scholars  will  at  once  accuse  Frank  Stockton's  The  Lady 
and  the  Tiger  of  being  an  impudent  piece  of  plagiarism. 

MANLEY 

This  story,  unlike  his  English  Adventures  hy  a  Per- 
son of  Honor,  is  at  least  respectable  in  its  morality; 
but  Mrs.  Manley's  works  fairly  reek  with  impurity. 
While  still  a  girl,  Mrs.  Manley  was  ruined,  and  much 
of  her  life  was  given  up  to  the  wildest  licentiousness. 
We  may  justly  expect,  therefore,  to  find  indecency  at 
the  root  of  all  her  plots.  One  of  her  earlier  works.  The 
Power  of  Love  in  Seven  Novels,  describes  beastly  pas- 
sion in  a  manner  that  shows  her  destitute  of  all  self- 
restraint.  Her  Secret  Memoirs  and  Manners  of  Several 
Persons  of  Quality  in  Both  Sexes — her  most  prominent 
work — contains  in  its  four  volumes  some  of  the  most 
suggestive  chronicling  of  disgusting  crime  to  be  found 
in  any  literature.  What  Mrs.  Manley  did  not  know, 
her  hot  imagination  easily  furnished,  and  her  gloating 
appetite  for  the  animal  in  man  could  arise  only  in  a  true 
degenerate. 

183 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

We  leani  in  this  story  that  a  woman  named  Astrsea, 
having  long  abandoned  the  earth,  decides  to  view  it 
once  more.  She  lands  upon  the  island  Atalantis  in  the 
Mediterranean,  and  meets  a  worn-out  creature,  once  the 
beautiful  Mother  Virtue.  These  two,  traveling  along, 
meet  Intelligence,  who  relates  bits  of  scandal  that  make 
Mother  Virtue  look  still  more  worn.  Mrs.  Nightwork,  a 
midwife,  joins  the  party,  and  the  current  of  filthy  nar- 
rative is  at  the  flood.  Atalantis  is  England,  of  course, 
and  the  various  names  given  are  those  of  prominent 
leaders  of  English  society.  That  the  shoe  must  have 
fit  is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Manley  was  ar- 
rested and  prosecuted;  but  that  it  was  a  very  neat  fit 
is  further  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  the  case  was  soon 
dropped.  This,  then,  was  the  kind  of  literature  that 
the  court  of  Charles  II  reveled  in,  and  the  sort,  too, 
that  lived  on  into  the  days  of  Pope,  who,  in  his  Bape 
of  the  Lock,  remembers  it  in  the  words,  '*As  long  as 
Atalantis  shall  be  read. ' ' 

BEHN 

Many  readers  will  remember  that  Sir  Walter  Scott 
knew  an  old  lady  **who  assured  him  that  in  her  younger 
days  Mrs.  Behn's  novels  were  as  currently  upon  the 
toilette  as  the  works  of  Miss  Edgeworth  at  present ;  and 
described  with  some  humor  her  own  surprise  when  the 
book  falling  into  her  hands  after  a  long  interval  of 
years,  and  when  its  contents  were  quite  forgotten,  she 
found  it  impossible  to  endure,  at  the  age  of  fourscore 
what  at  fifteen  she,  like  all  the  fashionable  world  of  the 
time,  had  perused  without  an  idea  of  impropriety." 
This  Mrs.  Behn,  of  good  family  it  seems,  early  went 

184 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

with  her  father  to  the  West  Indies,  where  she  saw 
slavery  and  lawlessness  in  their  worst  form.  She  at 
length  married  a  wealthy  Dutchman  named  Behn,  and 
while  living  with  him  in  the  Netherlands,  served  as  a 
British  spy.  As  she  seems  to  have  had  plenty  of  in- 
fluential lovers,  she  evidently  found  no  difficulty  in 
gaining  valuable  information.  In  later  years  she  re- 
turned to  London  and  spent  her  time  in  writing.  She 
was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey  in  1689. 

If  she  had  written  only  her  plays  we  could  easily 
judge  her  character;  for  their  vileness  fully  warranted 
her  title  of  **the  female  Wycherley."  But,  unfortu- 
nately, we  may  find  even  more  clearly  her  degraded  ideals 
in  such  books  as  her  Fair  Jilt,  her  Ladies'  Looking  Glass 
to  Dress  Themselves  By,  or  the  Whole  Art  of  Charming 
All  Mankind,  and  her  Lover's  Watch,  or  the  Art  of 
Making  Love:  Being  Rules  for  Courtship  for  Every 
Hour  of  the  Day  and  Night.  Her  one  famous  book, 
however,  is,  strange  to  say,  very  respectable  in  tone. 
Oroonoko,  or  the  Royal  Slave  (1698)  is  a  novel  of  in- 
terest and  valuable  in  discerning  the  trend  of  English 
fiction  in  the  last  days  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Here  indeed  is  a  thorough  mingling  of  the  romantic  and 
the  realistic  with  a  plain  endeavor  to  make  the  one  as 
well  as  the  other  entirely  plausible.  Mrs.  Behn  claims 
that  she  saw  and  conversed  with  this  kingly  slave  in 
the  West  Indies,  and  it  was  at  the  request  of  King 
Charles  to  whom  she  told  the  story  that  it  was  written 
down  and  published.  ''I  have  often  seen  and  conyersed 
with  this  great  man  and  been  a  witness  to  many  of  his 
mighty  actions,  and  do  assure  my  readers  the  most  illus- 
trious court  could  not  have  produced  a  braver  man 

185 


ENGLISH  FICTION  ^ 

both  for  greatness  of  courage  and  mind,  a  judgment 
more  solid,  .a  wit  more  quick,  and  a  conversation  more 
sweet  and  diverting.  ...  He  had  an  extreme  good 
and  graceful  mien  and  all  the  civility  of  a  well-bred 
great  man.'* 

Oroonoko,  a  negro,  the  grandson  of  an  African  king, 
falls  in  love  with  the  beautiful  negress,  Imoinda.  The 
old  king  also  falls  in  love  with  her  and  has  her  brought 
to  his  castle.  Oroonoko,  mad  with  love,  seeks  her  in 
the  palace  at  night,  and  is  discovered.  The  old  mon- 
arch in  his  jealousy  sells  the  girl;  while  Oroonoko  is 
soon  captured  and  suffers  the  same  fate.  Brought  to 
the  West  Indies,  he  finds  Imoinda  there,  and  soon  they 
are  allowed  to  marry.  But  of  course  a  prince  could  not 
long  brook  slavery;  he  raises  a  revolt,  has  a  battle,  is 
captured  and  beaten,  and  his  wounds  are  rubbed  with 
red  pepper.  Escaping  with  his  wife  to  the  woods,  he 
kills  her  lest  she  fall  captive  to  the  white  man,  and 
sits,  wounded  and  without  food,  by  her  body  for  sev- 
eral days  before  he  is  discovered.  Taken  captive  again, 
he  is  tied  to  a  post,  chopped  to  pieces,  and  burned. 

Here  is  an  effort  to  glorify  the  ** child  of  Nature." 
Later  Eousseau  is  to  bestow  great  praise  upon  the  savage 
state;  '* everything  is  well  when  it  comes  fresh  from 
the  hands  of  the  Maker  of  things;  everything  degener- 
ates in  the  hands  of  man."  Years  before  this,  however, 
Mrs.  Behn  compelled  the  sympathy  and  admiration  of  the 
hard-headed  British  for  a  black  slave  thousands  of  ' 
miles  away,  and,  furthermore,  compelled  some  admira- 
tion for  the  primitive  and  therefore  (according  to  herself 
and  Rousseau)  the  noble.  This  negro  prince  is  hand- 
some, learned,  dignified ;  men  feel  constrained  to  bow  | 

186 


ff. 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

before  him ;  he  is  a  natural  leader  and  monarch.  Anglo- 
Saxon  civilization  suffers  in  the  comparison;  the  whites 
are  brutal  tyrants,  earthy  beings  who  cannot  compre- 
hend this  black  man's  innate  nobility.  Then,  too,  as 
a  forerunner  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  it  shows  the  ability 
o;f  the  novel  to  assail  a  theory  or  a  practice  in  a  manner 
many  times  more  powerful  than  that  used  in  a  logical 
but  abstract  essay  or  dissertation.  Eomantic  as  many 
of  the  incidents  are,  this  novel  gains  its  power  by  its 
show  of  personal  knowledge,  its  attention  to  details,  its 
endeavor  to  picture  a  possible  life,  in  short,  its  realism. 
Thus  out  of  a  silly  imitation  of  silly  French  romances 
had  developed  a  work  of  some  strength,  containing  some 
impossible  events,  but,  in  the  main,  plausible  because 
of  its  natural  scenes,  its  characterization,  and  its  patient 
statement  of  a  series  of  events  apparently  in  an  unex- 
aggerated  manner.  These  are  the  very  elements  that 
Defoe  was  to  become  master  of,  and  the  very  elements 
that  the  tinker  of  Bedford  Jail,  ignorant  of  French  ro- 
mances, was  unconsciously  developing  at  this  very  pe- 
riod. 

BUNYAN 

John  Bunyan,  ' '  chief  of  sinners, ' '  in  his  own  opinion, 
and  chief  of  seventeenth-century  realists,  in  the  critics' 
opinion,  was  born  near  Bedford  in  1628.  A  lowly 
mender  of  pots,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him,  un- 
educated in  books,  but  full  of  the  knowledge  born  of  ex- 
perience and  inner  thought,  he  learned  to  know  the 
human  soul  as  no  previous  writer  save  Shakespeare  had 
known  it.  His  life  was  one  of  intense  spiritual  conflict. 
In  his  youth,  according  to  his  autobiographical  Grace 

187 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Abounding,  he  was  a  blasphemer,  a  liar,  the  ringleader 
in  wickedness.  But  he  married  a  pious  woman,  whose 
only  dowry  was  two  books.  The  Plain  Man's  Pathwuy 
to  Heaven  and  The  Practice  of  Piety,  and  this  woman 's 
conversation,  together  with  the  reading  of  these  two 
volumes,  put  his  already  abnormally  tender  conscience 
to  still  deeper  thought.  He  renounced  his  sins,  became  a 
regular  church-goer,  and  gained  the  commendation  of  all 
people  for  his  godly  life.  But  still  his  soul  was  troubled. 
He  heard  certain  women  speak  of  the  '*  perfect  peace 
of  God,"  and  the  longing  to  experience  this  became  so 
great  that  he  went  to  Mr.  Gifford,  a  preacher  of  Bed- 
ford, and  through  this  man's  teaching  '*was  filled  full 
of  comfort  and  hope."  **Yea,"  he  exclaims,  '^I  was 
now  so  taken  with  the  love  and  mercy  of  God  that  I 
remember  I  could  not  tell  how  to  contain  till  I  got  home. 
I  thought  I  could  have  spoken  of  his  love  and  have  told 
of  his  mercy  to  me  even  to  the  very  crows  that  sat  upon 
the  plowed  lands  before  me,  had  they  been  capable 
to  have  understood  me. ' '  The  man  who  could  feel,  real- 
ize, and  visualize  soul  activities  so  keenly  could  not  but 
produce  pictures  masterly  in  their  vividness,  were  he 
to  touch  pen  to  paper. 

Having  joined  the  Baptist  congregation  at  Bedford, 
he  soon  gained  fame  as  an  irresistible  speaker.  But 
when  Charles  II  came  to  the  throne,  the  Act  of  Uni- 
formity was  once  more  enforced,  and  Bunyan  was  in 
1660  cast  into  Bedford  Jail,  where  he  remained  twelve 
years,  for  '^  devilishly  and  perniciously  abstaining  from 
coming  to  church  to  hear  divine  service,  and  upholding 
unlawful  meetings  and  conventicles." 

Time  has  proved  that  this  was  the  very  trial  needed 
188 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

to  bring  forth  the  latent  genius  of  Bunyan.  Long  years 
of  silent  thought  and  introspection  developed  his  spirit- 
ual insight  and  his  power  of  visualization  until  the 
things  of  God  became  as  concrete  to  him  as  the  walls 
of  his  cells.  There  with  only  the  memory  of  his  wife's 
two  books  and  the  presence  of  his  Bible  and  Fox's  Booh 
of  Martyrs,  he  penned  those  immortal  lines:  *'As  I 
walked  through  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  I  lighted 
on  a  certain  place  where  was  a  den;  and  I  laid  me 
down  in  that  place  to  sleep ;  and  as  I  slept,  I  dreamed 
a  dream."  That  mighty  vision,  published  in  1678  under 
the  title,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  has  been  more  widely  read 
than  any  other  book  except  the  Bible,  and  to  the  end 
of  time  it  will  remain  one  of  the  greatest  symbolical 
pictures  of  the  struggling  soul  of  humanity.  Those  who 
believed  that  only  vast  learning  could  produce  a  master- 
piece denied  the  possibility  of  his  having  written  it; 
but  the  sturdy  tinker  put  them  to  scorn  by  writing  a 
second  part,  wherein  the  wife  and  children  of  Christian 
reached  the  Celestial  City. 

Without  pride,  without  self-glorification,  but  simply 
for  the  good  of  his  fellow  men,  this  strange  man  of 
genuine  piety  followed  his  famous  classic  with  such 
books  as  the  Boly  War,  which  treat  of  the  mighty 
conflict  of  Shaddai  and  Diabolus  for  the  conquest  of 
that  fair  city,  **Mansoul,"  and  The  Life  and  Death  of 
Mr.  B adman,  one  of  the  most  realistic  character  sketches 
in  all  literature,  a  work  which  apparently  influenced 
Defoe  in  his  portrayal  of  low  life,  and  Fielding  in  his 
Jonathan  Wild  the  Great.  Released  from  prison  in 
1673,  Bunyan  became  pastor  of  a  Bedford  congregation 
and  preached  almost  daily  either  there  or  in  London. 

189 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  crowds  that  came  to  listen  were  often  so  vast  that 
he  had  to  be  lifted  over  the  heads  of  his  congregation 
to  the  pulpit  stairs.  Thus  in  godly  exercise  he  passed  his 
busy  years.  His  life  was  sacrificed  in  an  errand  of 
love.  To  reconcile  a  father  and  a  son,  he  made  a  long 
journey  on  horseback  to  their  home,  and,  being  drenched 
by  rain,  was  seized  with  a  fever  and,  after  a  ten-days' 
illness,  died  in  August,  1688. 

'*  Other  allegorists  have  pleased  the  fancy  or  gratified 
the  understanding,  but  Bunyan  occupies  at  once  the 
imagination,  the  reason,  and  the  heart  of  his  reader. ' '  * 
How  does  he  do  it?  In  the  first  place,  he  saw  images 
with  a  vividness  vouchsafed  to  few  men  in  the  flesh. 
There  is  no  haziness  in  any  figure  he  presents ;  the  deed, 
the  scene,  the  character,  stand  sharp  and  clear  before 
us.  We  know  forevermore  the  subject  portrayed  for 
us.  In  the  second  place,  as  an  analyst  of  the  human 
soul  he  is  a  born  psychologist.  As  we  read,  we  are 
overwhelmed  with  the  impression  that  these  inner  strug- 
gles are  real,  true,  and  universal.  Universal — ^that  is 
the  fitting  word  for  those  sorrows,  joys,  and  longings 
experienced  by  the  hero  marching  toward  the  City  on 
High.  Who  shall  escape  the  Slough  of  Despond  ?  Who 
shall  not  climb  the  Hill  Difficulty?  Who  shall  not 
moan  in  Doubting  Castle?  Who  shall  not  weep  in  the 
Valley  of  Humiliation  ?  And  who  shall  escape  the  Val 
ley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  ? 

This  man  of  'ignorance"  has  sounded  the  depths  of 
the  universal  soul ;  he  has  shown  us  what  we  know  our- 
selves to  be.  There  is  another  form  of  realism  in  thia 
work,  however, — the  realism  of  his  own  day.     The  peo- 

4  Tuckerman:     History  of  English  Prose  Fiction,  p.  109. 

190 


SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES 

pie  who  live  in  these  pages  had  walked  the  streets  of 
Bedford  or  London  with  him;  the  trial  of  Christian 
and  Faithful  in  Vanity  Fair  is  just  such  a  trial  as  he  and 
many  another  man  suffered  in  the  English  courts  of 
Charles'  day.  He  built,  not  on  dreams  alone,  but  on 
the  hard  facts  of  this  harsh  world.  Again,  in  his  fiery 
zeal  to  save  men's  souls,  he  disdained  the  artificial  de- 
vices of  language;  his  eloquence  is  the  eloquence  of  di- 
rectness and  sincerity.  Macaulay  is  right  when  he  de- 
clares that  Bunyan's  vocabulary  is  the  vocabulary  of 
the  common  people.  *'Yet  no  writer  has  said  more  ex- 
actly what  he  meant  to  say.  For  magnificence,  for 
pathos,  for  vehement  exhortation,  for  subtle  disquisi- 
tion, for  every  purpose  of  the  poet,  the  orator,  and  the 
divine,  this  homely  dialect,  the  dialect  of  the  plain  work- 
ingman,  was  sufiicient. ' ' 

Here,  then,  is  the  same  earnest  effort  we  demand  in 
modern  fiction — the  effort  to  investigate  sincerely  and 
accurately  the  problem  of  life  and  character,  not  as 
they  might  be,  but  as  they  are.  No  more  fantastic 
dreams,  no  more  dainty  juggling  with  ideas,  but  the 
zealous  endeavor  to  solve  this  mighty  enigma  of  hu- 
manity and  its  soul.  This  was  the  man  and  these  the 
books  that,  reaching  down  to  the  dregs  of  English  life, 
and  reaching  up  to  the  froth  of  it,  too,  changed  for 
all  time  the  course  of  the  current  that  has  flowed  with 
such  mighty  volume  and  with  such  beneficent  effects 
through  the  last  two  centuries  of  our  social  development. 


191 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Fiction  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 

social  and  literary  conditions 

As  far  as  moral  and  intellectual  conditions  are  con- 
cerned, the  eighteenth  century  readily  divides  itself  into 
two  periods :  the  first  from  1700  to  1760,  a  time  of  un- 
abashed indecency,  political  intrigue,  and  tyranny ;  and, 
second,  from  1760  to  1800,  a  period  of  slow  but  clearly 
perceivable  change  in  personal,  social,  and  public  ideals. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  any  other  years  of  English  life 
were  more  shameful  than  those  when  Addison  and  Steele 
were  striving  to  *^make  morality  fashionable."  Great 
attention  was  being  given  to  purity  and  clearness  of  lit- 
erary style ;  but  such  traits  were  by  no  means  deemed  es- 
sential in  the  style  of  life  followed  by  high  and  low  in 
that  day.  Constitutional  government  had  come  to  stay. 
The  Whigs  and  the  Tories  became  two  exceedingly  dis- 
tinct parties;  politics  developed  a  corruptness  never 
known  before  in  the  kingdom.  Defoe  declares  that  seats 
in  Parliament  were  openly  sold  for  one  thousand  guineas. 
England  and  Scotland  were  completely  united  in  1707 ; 
there  were  great  victories  abroad ;  the  public  enthusiasm 
was  high  in  its  hopes  and  purposes ;  but  the  islands  them- 
selves were  full  of  brutality  and  vice.  Cock-fighting 
was  allowed  in  the  schools;  bull  baiting  was  a  favorite 
London  sport  twice  a  week ;  the  theaters  were  daring  in 

192 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

their  vulgar  jokes  and  personalities.  The  London  cof- 
fee-houses, numbering  three  thousand  in  1708,  in  early 
days  resorts  of  brilliant  wits  and  poets,  were  now  too 
often  filled  with  card-players.  Women  showed  an  as- 
tonishing taste  for  this  sort  of  gambling.  The  intro- 
duction of  gin  gave  rise  to  a  vicious  form  of  drunken- 
ness unknown  in  the  days  of  milder  beverages,  and  as 
a  result  London's  streets,  always  dark  and  dangerous 
at  night,  now  frequently  became  the  scenes  of  fearful 
orgies  and  murderous  assaults.  Well  might  old  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  look  to  his  guard  when  he  wished  to 
go  to  the  theater.  Newspapers  and  magazines  had  a 
rather  wide  reading  among  the  city  folk  of  the  higher 
rank,  and  a  man  with  a  sharp  wit  and  plentiful  store 
of  cynicism  might  easily  gain  a  livelihood  with  his  pen ; 
but  outside  the  great  city  there  was  a  vast  horde  of 
people,  both  aristocratic  and  common,  who  scarcely  ever 
glanced  at  a  book  or  journal,  and  whose  education,  in  a 
multitude  of  cases,  amounted  to  little  more  than  the 
ability  to  write  a  crude  hand. 

True  religion  seems  almost  to  have  vanished  from  the 
land.  Montesquieu  declared  that  every  one  laughed  if 
religion  was  even  mentioned.  We  have  records  that  a 
witch  was  burned  near  London  in  1712,  and  that  va- 
rious preachers  of  the  day  prosecuted  the  case.  Those 
preachers  of  the  18th  century — ^what  might  not  be  said 
of  them,  if  modern  decency  did  not  forbidi  The  lit- 
erature of  the  age  is  full  of  contemptuous  pictures  of 
them.  Graves,  a  preacher  himself,  speaking  in  his 
Spiritual  Quixote  of  a  fat  gentleman  says:  *'By  his 
dress,  indeed,  I  should  have  taken  him  for  a  country 
clergyman,  but  that  he  never  drank  ale  or  smoked  to- 
13  193 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

bacco."  Mrs.  Edgeworth's  Belinda  gives  us  a  portrayal 
of  a  parson:  '^It  was  the  common  practice  of  this  man 
to  leap  from  his  horse  at  the  church  door  after  follow- 
ing a  pack  of  hounds,  huddle  on  his  surplice  and  gabble 
over  the  service  with  the  most  indecent  mockery  of 
religion.  Do  I  speak  with  acrimony?  I  have  reason. 
It  was  he  who  first  taught  my  lord  to  drink.  Then  he 
was  a  wit — an  insufferable  wit.  His  conversation  after 
he  had  drank,  was  such  as  no  woman  but  Harriet  Freke 
could  understand,  and  such  as  few  gentlemen  could  hear. 
I  have  never,  alas,  been  thought  a  prude,  but  in  the  hey- 
day of  my  youth  and  gaiety  this  man  always  disgusted 
me.     In  one  word,  he  was  a  buck  parson." 

Harriet,  the  heroine  in  Richardson's  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  describes  a  sort  of  reverent  rascal  all  too 
common  in  her  day:  ''A  vast,  tall,  big-boned,  splay- 
footed man;  a  shabby  gown;  as  shabby  a  wig;  a  huge 
and  pimply  face;  and  a  nose  that  hid  half  of  it  when 
he  looked  on  one  side,  and  he  seldom  looked  fore-right 
when  I  saw  him.  He  had  a  dog-eared  Common  Prayer- 
book  in  his  hand,  which  once  had  been  gilt,  opened, 
horrid  sight!  at  the  page  of  matrimony.  .  .  .  The 
man  snuffled  his  answers  through  his  nose.  When  he 
opened  his  pouched  mouth,  the  tobacco  hung  about  his 
great  yellow  teeth.  He  squinted  upon  me,  and  took 
my  clasped  hands,  which  were  buried  in  his  huge  hand." 
Even  those  who  were  not  positively  vicious  were  often 
indeed  like  Dr.  Bartlett,  Sir  Charles  Grandison 's  chap- 
lain, cold-blooded,  passive  beings  who,  though  doing  no 
great  evil,  certainly  did  no  positive  good.  Parson 
Adams,  described  in  Fielding's  Joseph  Andrews,  a 
preacher  who,  when  the  golden  rule  failed  used  his  fist, 

194 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

and  Dr.  Primrose,  in  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
were  glaring  exceptions  in  their  native  kindness  of  heart, 
self-forgetful  simplicity,  and  energetic  Christianity. 

The  well-founded  scandal  heard  in  both  den  and  draw- 
ing-room, is  nothing  short  of  shocking  to  the  refined 
woman  of  to-day.  My  Lady  This  and  My  Lady  That 
gathered  at  social  functions,  and,  as  Pope  says, 

At  ev'ry  word  a   reputation  dies. 

These  ladies  shrieked  such  bits  of  conversation  as: 
*^The  devil!  They  seem  to  put  her  on  a  course  of  the 
bitters!''  **Why,  the  devil,  did  she  not  make  her  ap- 
pearance? I  suppose  the  prude  was  afraid  of  my  de- 
molishing and  unrigging  her !"  ^ 

Writers  on  the  subject  have  pleaded  that  we  must 
not  condemn  the  franlmess  or  coarseness  of  the  day  as 
immorality.  Men  and  women  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury more  often  called  a  spade  a  spade  than  we  of  this 
day.  This  declaration  doubtless  contains  truth;  but 
back  of  the  loud  voices,  the  impolite  words,  the  frequent 
profanity,  there  were  too  often  hearts  burning  with 
bestial  passions  and  remembrances  and  prospects  of 
lustful  pleasures.  It  is  too  evident  that  wedlock,  often 
based  upon  a  financial  transaction,  was  looked  upon  as 
a  very  loose  bond  indeed.  It  is  plain,  also,  that  every 
man,  before  settling  down,  had  to  make  his  round  of 
heavy  drinking,  gambling,  fighting,  and  adultery.  It 
is  undeniable  that  inns  hung  out  signs  with  the  words : 
'^  Drunk  for  one  penny,  dead  drunk  for  two  pennies, 
straw  for  nothing."     Harsh  laws  were  created  for  the 

1  Edgeworth's  Belinda, 

195 


I 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

criminal  classes,  and  yet  no  effort  was  made  to  reach  the 
causes  of  the  increase  in  crime.  Until  1736  there  were 
absolutely  no  public  lights  in  the  London  streets.  Such 
a  condition  was  a  tempting  invitation  to  such  rowdies 
as  the  ** dancing  masters''  who  amused  themselves  by 
pricking  people  with  their  swords,  the  *Humblers,"  who 
stood  women  on  their  heads  and  then  rolled  them  down- 
hill in  barrels,  and  the  Modocs  who  *  Hupped  the  lion,'' 
that  is,  beat  a  man's  nose  flat  and  then  gouged  out  his 
eyes  with  their  fingers.  As  death  was  the  penalty  for 
almost  every  crime,  the  criminal  was  looked  upon  as 
a  hero,  and,  in  the  novels,  was  frequently  described 
with  but  thinly  veiled  admiration.  The  clergy  had  de- 
serted their  high  position  as  examples  of  righteousness, 
and  as  a  result  were  ridiculed  in  the  city  and  humiliated 
in  the  country.  The  *' Fleet  parsons"  not  only  readily 
performed  illegal  marriages,  but  kept  saloons  and  tav- 
erns and  furnished  a  free  meal,  free  drinks,  and  a  free 
bed  with  each  marriage. 

George  II  acquainted  his  wife  with  all  his  disgusting 
love  intrigues,  giving  her  minute  descriptions  of  the 
appearance  and  physique  of  his  victims,  and  even  nam- 
ing prices  paid.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  Swift,  in  his 
Gulliver ^s  Travels,  vented  his  insane  rage  by  heaping 
insults  upon  all  mankind?  The  complexity  of  the  new 
social  life  had  brought  too  much  and  too  sudden  power 
to  the  average  man ;  a  too  sudden  gift  of  political  priv- 
ileges had  brought  a  new  corruption  among  the  common 
folk ;  the  old  laws  and  old  religion,  sufficient  indeed  for 
the  former  simple  life,  had  now  been  far  outgrown.  A 
temporary  chaos  of  vulgar  display,  bestiality,  riotous 
vice,  and  universal  dishonesty  naturally  resulted.    Says 

196 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Hervey,  in  his  Memoirs,  ''The  king  and  queen  looked 
upon  human  kind  as  so  many  commodities  in  a  market, 
which,  without  favor  or  affection  they  considered  only 
in  the  degree  they  were  useful,  and  paid  for  thejn  in 
that  proportion,  Sir  Robert  Walpole  being  sworn  ap- 
praiser to  their  majesties  at  all  these  sales." 

The  Anglo-Saxon  race,  however,  has  always  pos- 
sessed too  much  moral  stamina  to  remain  long  in  the 
mire  of  bestial  vice.  We  find  here  and  there  a  voice 
raised  in  protest.  "We  find,  for  instance,  in  Richard- 
son's Correspondence  a  young  lady's  protesting  against 
Sterne's  indecent  suggestions  in  Tristram  Shandy:  ''I 
am  horribly  out  of  humor  with  the  present  taste  which 
makes  people  ashamed  to  own  they  have  not  read  what, 
if  fashion  did  not  authorize,  they  would  with  more  rea- 
son blush  to  say  they  had  read.  Perhaps  some  polite 
person  from  London  may  have  forced  this  piece  into 
your  hands ;  but  give  it  not  a  place  in  your  library ;  let 
not  Tristram  Shandy  be  ranked  among  the  well-chosen 
authors  there.  It  is  indeed  a  little  book  and  little  is 
its  merit,  though  great  has  been  the  writer's  reward. 
Unaccountable  wildness,  whimsical  digressions,  comical 
incoherences,  uncommon  indecencies,  all  with  an  air  of 
novelty,  have  catched  the  reader's  attention  and  applause 
has  flown  from  one  to  another  till  it  is  almost  singular 
to  disapprove.  .  .  .  But  mark  my  prophecy,  .  .  . 
that  this  ridiculous  compound  will  be  the  cause  of  many 
more  productions  witless  and  humorless  perhaps,  but 
indecent  and  absurd,  till  the  town  will  be  punished  for 
undue  encouragement  by  being  poisoned  with  disgust- 
ful nonsense. ' ' 

It  was  upon  this  middle  class,  in  or  near  the  larger 
197 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

cities,  that  regeneration  had  to  depend;  the  aristocracy 
were  too  basely  immoral,  the  common  folk  too  basely 
ignorant.  These  middle-class  folk  of  the  city,  how- 
ever, had  to  be  respected.  They  were  industrious ;  they 
were  the  wealth  producers;  their  demands  brought  bet- 
ter highways,  canals,  safety  from  robbery;  they  were 
heavy  tax-payers.  From  a  financial  standpoint  they 
compelled  regard.  Though  solemn  and  stiff  and  often 
ridiculous  in  their  efforts  to  appear  aristocratic,  they 
were  at  heart  religious,  and  had  indeed  a  profound  re- 
gard for  propriety.  Then,  too,  back  in  1703,  there  had 
been  bom  a  genius  named  John  Wesley,  and  toward  the 
middle  of  the  century  he  and  his  brother  Charles  were 
to  raise  a  flame  of  religion  that  by  its  very  ardor  drove 
sin  into  hiding,  and  compelled  the  hostile  churches  to 
purify  their  own  temples.  Thus  the  change  for  the  bet- 
ter began.  In  the  later  years  of  the  eighteenth  century 
the  novel  still  contained  vulgarity;  vicious  characters 
were  still  portrayed;  but  such  elements  were  not  so 
frequent ;  they  became  more  and  more  incidental,  rather 
than  essential. 

Some  may  ask:  Why  such  a  polished  style  in  such 
a  filthy  age?  Perhaps  the  reason  lies  in  the  fact  that 
the  most  highly  intellectual  in  this  day  were  longing 
for,  seeking  and  demanding  order — order  in  every  de- 
partment of  life.  Order  could  not  yet  be  secured  in  pri- 
vate and  public  life,  but  this  very  desire  for  rules  so 
badly  needed  in  all  other  activities  of  the  time,  showed  it- 
self most  strongly  in  that  most  intellectual  field  of  all — 
the  literary.  The  result  was  a  reign  of  '* classicism." 
Thus  it  happens  that  in  the  eighteenth  century  we  have 
side  by  side  the  strangely  contradictory  traits  of  a  de- 

198 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

graded  domestic  and  civic  life  and  of  a  literature  slav- 
ishly subservient  to  regulations  and  conventionalities. 
The  highest  intellects  of  the  age  spoke  in  poetry,  and 
therefore  the  tendency  was  most  evident  in  it ;  the  lesser 
genius  expressed  itself  in  prose  fiction,  and  there  classi- 
cism is  least  evident.  One  trait,  the  subordination  of 
the  fancy  to  the  reason,  is,  however,  plain  in  the  fiction, 
and  from  the  days  of  Defoe,  who  **lied  like  truth'' 
until  near  the  close  of  the  century,  this  subordination 
is  very  evident  in  all  narratives. 

Steadily,  also,  prose  was  gaining  respect.  Indeed, 
the  poets  in  their  field  did  not  often  reach  the  same 
high  level  as  Addison  and  Steele,  Gibbon  and  Burke, 
reached  in  theirs.  The  essay  largely  took  the  place  of 
the  poem  in  influencing  the  thoughtful  classes.  Said 
Walpole,  in  a  letter  to  Sir  H.  Mann,  in  1742.  ''  'Tia 
an  age  most  unpoetical.  'T  is  even  a  test  of  wit  to  dis- 
like poetry.  ...  I  do  not  think  an  author  would 
be  universally  commended  for  any  production  in  verse 
unless  it  were  an  ode  to  the  Secret  Committee,  with 
rhymes  of  liberty  and  property,  nation  and  administra- 
tion." The  care  bestowed  upon  prose  far  surpassed 
that  granted  in  any  previous  day.  Socially  and  polit- 
ically it  paid  to  be  able  to  write  a  strong  convincing 
style.  Tuckerman  has  summed  it  up  well  when  he 
says:  ** Literary  success  was  a  passport  to  the  houses 
and  the  intimacy  of  the  great.  "^ 

The  eighteenth  century  was  the  logical  time  for  the 
transition  from  the  play  to  the  novel.  In  Shake- 
speare's day  comparatively  few  in  either  town  or 
country  could  read,  and  in  the  metropolis  intellectual 

2  Tuckerman :     History  of  English  Prose  Fiction,  p.  136. 

199 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

pleasure  vested  itself  in  the  theater,  and  in  the  rural 
districts  expressed  itself  in  the  mystery,  miracle,  and 
morality  plays.  But  now  a  much  larger  percentage  of 
the  people,  especially  in  the  cities,  could  read,  and  as 
the  play  had  inevitably  lost  much  of  its  originality  and 
freshness,  it  was  but  natural  for  the  educated  to  look  to 
the  printed  page  for  entertainment.  Moreover,  the 
novel,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been  slowly  evolving  for 
some  years.  The  '* character''  writers  of  the  previous 
century  had  presented  clearly  delineated  beings;  Defoe 
had  been  making  the  impossible  appear  highly  probable ; 
Addison  and  Steele  were  preparing  the  way  by  means 
of  charming  essays,  half  fiction  in  contents  and  form. 
The  novel,  therefore,  seemingly  but  not  in  reality,  hurst 
into  existence,  suddenly  reached  a  great  height,  and 
then,  before  the  close  of  the  century,  almost  as  suddenly 
declined.  Its  entire  period  of  flourishing  existence 
might  be  limited  to  the  thirty  years  between  1740  and 
1770.  Gosse,  somewhat  shortening  the  period,  divides 
it  into  three  sections :  ^  (1)  the  days  of  Pamela,  Joseph 
Andrews,  David  Simple,  and  Jonathan  Wild,  when 
the  tales  were  interesting,  but  somewhat  crude  in  the 
telling  and  the  character  development;  (2)  the  days  of 
Clarissa  Harlowe,  Boderick  Random,  Tom  Jones,  Pere- 
grine Pickle,  Amelia,  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  when 
the  stories  were  masterly  in  both  plot  and  character; 
(3)  the  days  of  Tristram  Shandy,  Basselas,  the  Adven- 
tures of  a  Guinea,  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  and  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,  when  there  seems  to  have  been  a  lack  of 
admirable  plots,  but  some  keen,  accurate,  and  charming 
pictures  of  characters.  After  these  came  a  period  of 
^Eighteenth-Century  Literature,  p.  243. 

200 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

decline,  and  only  now  and  then  novels,  such  as  Humph- 
rey Clinker,  Evelina,  and  Caleb  Williams  rose  above  the 
general  plane  of  mediocrity.  One  fact  was  clearly  set 
forth  by  the  century  as  a  necessary  element  in  all  future 
fiction:  that  true,  vivid  portrayal  and  analysis  of  emo- 
tions must  be  the  basis  of  all  successful  narrative.  The 
old  type  of  impossible  romances  was  dead.  It  is  true^ 
Eobert  Paltock  (1697f-1767?)  wrote  as  late  as  1751  a 
tale  of  the  obsolete  sort,  Peter  Wilkins,  the  story 
of  a  sailor  who  found  near  the  South  Pole  winged 
men  and  women;  but  he  was  a  lonely  exception,  and 
stood  so  far  aside  from  the  general  march  of  progress 
that  his  book  could  not  attain  prolonged  success. 

We  shall  find,  also,  that  eighteenth-century  fiction 
readily  divides  itself  into  two  classes  according  to  sub- 
ject: that  of  domestic  life,  such  as  Clarissa  Harlowe  or 
Evelina,  where  a  virtuous  woman  is  generally  pitted 
against  a  libertine,  and  that  of  the  lowly  life,  such  as 
Roderick  Random,  where  the  story,  generally  comic, 
frequently  uses  virtue  as  an  object  of  ridicule.  Both 
kinds  contain  bold,  broad  streaks  of  immorality.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Graves,  author  of  the  Spiritual  Quixote,  might 
say  in  defense:  *'I  am  convinced  that  Don  Quixote  or 
Gil  Bias,  Clarissa  or  Sir  Charles  Orandison  will  furnish 
more  hints  for  correcting  the  follies  and  regulating  the 
morals  of  young  persons,  and  impress  them  more  forci- 
bly on  their  minds  than  volumes  of  severe  precepts, 
seriously  delivered,  and  dogmatically  enforced."  But 
we  of  to-day  are  more  likely  to  agree  with  a  modern^ 
critic  who  declares:  '*Love  degenerates  into  mere  an- 
imal passion  and  almost  every  woman  has  to  guard  her 
chastity — if  indeed  she  cares  to  guard  it  at  all — against 

201 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  approaches  of  man  as  the  sworn  enemy  of  her  vir- 
tue. The  language  of  the  characters  abounds  in  oaths 
and  gross  expressions,  and  to  swear  loudly  and  to  drink 
deeply  are  the  common  attributes  of  fashionable  as  well 
^  vulgar  life.  The  heroines  allow  themselves  to  take 
part  in  conversations  which  no  modest  woman  could 
have  heard  without  a  blush. ' '  Well  might  a  comedy  of 
the  middle  century,  George  Coleman's  Polly  Honey- 
comb,  close  with  the  exclamation,  *^ Zounds!  .  r  .  a 
man  might  as  well  turn  his  daughter  loose  in  Covent 
Garden  as  trust  the  cultivation  of  her  mind  to  a  cir- 
culating library." 

'^SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLET " 

The  importance  of  the  seventeenth-century  *' char- 
acter" writers  in  the  building  of  the  novel  has  been 
indicated.  It  is  this  very  sort  of  work  that  makes 
Addison  and  Steele  powerful  influences  in  eighteenth- 
century  fiction.  They  undoubtedly  made  clear  the  way 
that  led  to  natural,  true  narrative.  The  Tatler  of 
1709  and  the  Spectator  of  1711  brought  conciseness  and 
elegance  to  a  prose  that  had  been  altogether  too  slov- 
enly ;  but  far  beyond  this  in  importance  was  the  appear- 
ance of  that  admirable  character,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
and  his  famous  group.  Sir  Roger  is  one  of  the  clearest 
and  most  living  figures  in  all  the  world's  literature,  and 
but  a  bit  more  of  plot  would  have  made  him  the  hero  of 
the  first  great  English  novel.  We  are  given  glimpses 
of  his  youth ;  we  see  him  in  his  declining  years ;  we  have 
even  a  description  of  his  death ;  these,  placed  in  a  logical 
sequence,  would  have  proved  excellent  material  for 
either  fiction  or  drama.     There  is  even  a  hint  of  a  love 

202 


i 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

plot  in  the  work.  That  widow  cast  her  bewitching  eyes 
upon  him  and  he  fell  like  a  great  surprised  booby ;  but 
she  proved  too  witty  and  learned  for  Sir  Roger,  and  he 
never  felt  at  ease  while  in  her  presence.  '^This  bar- 
barity/' says  he,  **has  left  me  ever  at  a  distance  from 
the  most  beautiful  object  my  eyes  ever  beheld." 

It  is  marvelous  with  how  few  touches  this  hardy, 
old-fashioned  Englishman  is  put  before  us  a  living, 
thinking,  heartful  being.  He  was  so  human  that  John- 
son could  not  grant  him  whole-souled  admiration — a 
sure  test  of  truthfulness  in  imaginary  characterization. 
The  wise  old  Doctor  thought  his  conduct  too  irregular, 
because  of  '*  habitual  rusticity  and  that  negligence  which 
solitary  grandeur  naturally  generates,"  and,  doubtless 
thinking  of  the  squire's  frequent  references  to  the  wid- 
ow, declared  that  he  had  ''flying  vapors  of  incipient 
madness  which  from  time  to  time  cloud  reason  without 
eclipsing  it. ' '  The  fact  is  the  character  was  so  real  that 
Johnson,  now  divorced  from  rural  humanity,  could  not 
clearly  appreciate  it. 

Sir  Roger  shows  his  literary  ancestors  to  have  been 
those  '* characters"  portrayed  by  men  of  morals  in  the 
previous  century.  They  had  shown  a  man  of  kindness, 
a  man  of  religions,  a  man  of  cheerfulness,  and  so  on, 
but  here  were  the  abstractions  made  living  in  the  flesh, 
and  in  one  flesh  at  that.  It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  filthy 
creatures  of  Mrs.  Mauley's  imagination  to  the  healthy 
cleanliness  of  this  normal  man.  Addison  and  Steele 
did  indeed  endeavor  to  make  morality  fashionable;  but 
they  undertook  the  work,  not  like  Swift,  by  exaggerat- 
ing depravity,  but  by  picturing  a  human  being  almost 
ideal.     Sir  Roger  has  that  enviable  power  given  only 

203 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

to  the  greatest  figures  in  fiction;  he  is  your  companion 
for  ever  more.  Here,  then,  was  a  hero.  Here  were  in- 
cidents, comments  on  life,  environments  described,  mo- 
tives analyzed,  some  clash  of  wills,  even  the  outlines  of 
a  love  affair.  Everything  was  present  for  the  complete 
novel  except  the  logical  sequence  of  actions.  Defoe 
possessed  astonishing  ability  in  making  events  seem 
logical;  he  could  associate  incidents  with  a  character 
until  they  seemed  of  the  very  essence  of  that  being.  If 
Defoe,  with  his  peculiar  genius,  could  have  combined 
with  Addison,  in  the  story  of  this  country  squire,  Eng- 
lish literature  would  have  been  enriched  with  a  strong 
novel  thirty  years  before  Eichardson  penned  his  epoch- 
making  Pamela, 

DANIEL   DEFOE 

I  have  said  that  Defoe  possessed  an  astonishing 
ability  to  make  events  seem  logical.  It  was  because 
Defoe  knew  life  with  an  accuracy  granted  to  but  few 
men.  Swift,  too,  had  this  insight  into  human  nature; 
but  he  preferred  to  picture  only  the  worst  phases.  Ad- 
dison knew  the  world;  but  he  preferred  to  picture  the 
ideal.  Defoe  surpassed  them  both  in  this  knowledge, 
and  he  preferred  to  picture  men  as  they  are.  From 
the  standpoint  of  fiction,  therefore,  he  is  of  greater  im- 
portance. Defoe  had  tried  many  occupations.  He  had 
lived  in  city  and  country,  in  England  and  on  the  Con- 
tinent. He  had  seen  practically  every  phase  of  civil- 
ized existence.  When,  therefore,  at  the  age  of  fifty- 
eight,  he  began  that  wonderful  story  of  the  lone  dweller 
on  a  far-away  island,  he  was  as  well  prepared  as  mortal 
could  be  to  tell  the  story  of  a  man.    And  just  there  is 

204 


y 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY  ^ 

a  reason  for  his  iiiidying  fame.  He  knew  what  the 
people  wanted,  because  he  was  one  of  the  people,  and  he 
placed  before  them  in  minute  detail  one  of  their  own 
number  at  the  common  daily  tasks  of  life.  He  realized 
that  all  readers  love  to  hear  the  story  of  another  man's 
life — its  struggles,  failures,  and  victories;  he  could,  in- 
deed, have  agreed  with  Carlyle  that  biography  was, 
after  all,  the  most  fascinating  form  of  literature.  It 
had,  therefore,  long  been  his  custom  whenever  a  noted 
or  notorious  character  died,  to  publish  immediately  a 
*4ife"  of  the  deceased.  Doubtless  at  first  he  tried  to 
make  such  narratives  true;  but,  finding  that  the  sur- 
prising paid,  he  began  to  invent  incidents,  and  thus 
gradually  drifted  into  fiction.  In  other  words,  he  be- 
gan by  presenting  real  persons  in  real  scenes,  passed 
from  that  to  presenting  fictitious  persons  in  real  scenes, 
and  at  length  passed  into  the  third  stage,  that  of  present- 
ing fictitious  persons  in  fictitious  scenes.  As  Minto* 
says,  **From  writing  biographies  with  real  names  at- 
tached to  them,  it  was  but  a  short  step  to  writing  biogra- 
phies with  fictitious  names."  When  an  author  does 
that,  he  comes  dangerously  near  writing  a  novel. 

Defoe's  experience  in  writing  biography  had  taught 
him  the  value  of  exact  statement  and  minute  details, 
and  it  was  by  means  of  this  very  massing  of  seem- 
ingly unimportant  and  often  trivial  details  that  he  con- 
structed a  narrative  never  excelled  in  convincing  real- 
ism. There  is  about  his  manner  of  relating  events  a 
certain  cold-bloodedness  which  forces  upon  us  an  im- 
pression that  he  is  merely  an  impersonal  historian,  and 
this  is  exactly  what  he  wished  to  be  considered.     He  de- 

4  Life  of  Defoe,  p.  134. 

205 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Clares  in  his  preface  to  Robinson  Crusoe  that  he  believes 
the  narrative  to  be  ^* a  just  history  of  fact"  and  that  as 
far  as  he  can  see,  ''there  is  no  appearance  of  fiction  in 
it."  He  rarely  becomes  enthusiastic;  he  takes  sides 
with  neither  friend  nor  foe;  he  seems  to  say,  ''I  give 
you  the  facts,  judge  for  yourself,"  and  as  a  result 
his  extreme  matter-of-factness  makes  us  ashamed  not 
to  believe.  Whenever,  indeed,  he  uses  some  brief 
moral  reflection  on  the  action  of  a  character,  it  is  done 
in  such  a  way  as  but  to  strengthen  the  idea  that  he  is 
a  mere  narrator  of  the  scene.  Writing,  not  for  fame, 
but  for  money,  Defoe  not  infrequently  presents  as  the 
real  author  some  person  who  appears  to  be  far  more 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  subject  than  he  himself. 
Thus  in  the  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,  he  assumes 
the  character  of  an  honest  London  shopkeeper;  in  the 
Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,  the  wars  are  described  by  a 
young  soldier  who  took  part  in  them. 

Defoe,  a  born  journalist,  had  a  way  of  feeling  the 
public  pulse,  and  finding  what  new  sensation  the  people 
desired,  and  then  he  produced  the  sensation  with  a 
vengeance.  Among  a  nervous  people,  such  a  man's 
power  would  be  dangerous  in  times  of  great  excitement 
or  impending  catastrophe.  The  Journal  of  the  Plague 
Year  was  published  at  a  time  when  England  was  hear- 
ing with  terror  that  the  ancient  disease  had  once  more 
broken  out  in  France;  and  Defoe  handled  the  theme 
with  such  vividness  and  such  merciless  precision  and 
detail  that  those  who  read  it  could  not  but  have  gained 
additional  terror.  So  realistic  was  this  story  that  for 
many  years  its  authenticity  was  not  doubted,  while  to 

206 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

this  day  numerous  libraries  place  the  volume  in  the  de- 
partment of  history. 

Defoe's  masterpiece,  Robinson  Crusoe  {1719)  came 
into  existence  under  similar  influences.  The  sailor,  Al- 
exander Selkirk,  told  about  in  Cooke's  Voyage  to  the 
South  Sea  (1712)  and  left  on  the  lonely  island  of  Juan 
Fernandez,  had  lived  there  four  years  and  had  been 
rescued  by  the  same  captain  who  had  placed  him  there. 
Defoe  saw  his  opportunity.  Seizing  upon  this  incident, 
and  knowing  the  possibilities  and  profit  in  public  curi- 
osity, he  wrote  the  most  believable  piece  of  fiction  ever 
created.  Inspect  this  masterly  work.  There  is  scarcely 
an  event  of  any  magnitude  in  the  entire  story.  An 
Englishman  is  shipwrecked,  and  going  about  the  neces- 
sary duties  of  a  lone  man,  he  passes  by  labor  from  the 
state  of  the  primitive  being  who  subsists  upon  the  rough 
gifts  of  Nature,  to  the  state  of  the  civilized  man  who  has 
founded  a  habitation  and  a  home,  and  has  made  Nature 
his  servant.  It  is  a  symbol  of  the  progress  of  all  hu- 
manity; its  truth  is  not  limited  to  one  man  or  nation; 
its  truth  is  universal.  Defoe  declared  it  an  allegory 
of  his  own  life  and  struggles.  He  had  labored  alone  in 
the  great  metropolis ;  he  had  become  a  master,  like  Cru- 
soe, through  sore  toil  and  bitter  experience.  But  its 
allegorical  meanings  are  far  more  general;  Defoe  wrote 
more  greatly  than  he  knew. 

How  does  the  book  possess  such  power  ^  The  story 
goes  for  a  while  along  the  line  of  the  ancient  picaresque 
tales,  with  which  the  higher  classes  were  becoming  dis- 
gusted; after  a  few  harum-scarum  adventures,  however, 
Crusoe  settles  down  to   tame   goats   and  dry  raisins. 

207 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

How,  then,  is  the  fascination  produced?  It  is  simply 
that  same  use  of  detail  found  so  valuable  by  Defoe  in 
his  biographies.  The  minute  descriptions  make  this 
deserted  being  live  before  us;  we  sympathize  with  him 
in  his  toil;  and  every  little  incident  in  his  day's  work 
becomes  a  matter  of  intense  interest  to  us.  Those  trips 
on  his  raft  from  the  shore  to  the  shipwreck  are  adven- 
tures of  breathless  suspense;  the  capture  of  his  goats 
and  the  gathering  of  his  grapes  are  of  gratifying  im- 
portance to  US;  his  building  of  a  wall  is  a  matter  of 
grave  concern;  and  that  footprint  on  the  sand — our 
hearts  leap  with  terror  as  we  hear  of  it !  Only  concen- 
trated attention  could  make  possible  such  a  result. 
Defoe,  therefore,  wastes  no  energy  on  complexity  of 
plot;  its  simplicity  leaves  him  every  mental  power  to 
be  expended  in  making  the  one  being  live  an  absolutely 
convincing  existence. 

There  is  vivid  character  portrayal  here,  but  prac- 
tically no  character  development.  So  far  as  the  story 
gives  information,  Robinson  Crusoe  is  about  the  same 
man,  except  for  a  little  more  wisdom,  when  he  leaves 
the  island,  as  when  he  came.  But  then  what  a  charming 
fellow  he  is!  In  our  interest  in  his  deeds  most  of  us 
neglect  to  notice  what  a  lovable  man  this  lonely  hero  is 
shown  to  be.  He  is  seemingly  just  a  commonplace  fel- 
low, with  a  good  deal  of  practical  information ;  but  it 
is  the  glorification  of  the  commonplace  that  Defoe  in- 
tends. He  taught  the  English  people,  through  their 
fellow-Englishman  Crusoe,  that  patience,  industry,  i 
steadiness  were  essentials  of  success,  and  that  contented, 
plodding  in  the  station  granted  by  Providence  might' 
produce  astonishing  results.     It  is  the  voice  of  the  fru- 

208 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

gal  and  hard-working  English  middle  class  speaking 
through  his  book;  and  with  this  popular  expression  of 
their  ideals  were  the  additional  charms  of  the  travel 
book,  the  book  of  customs,  the  book  of  biography. 
Small  wonder  that  the  work  has  sold  its  millions  of 
copies;  small  wonder  that  it  bids  fair  to  live  until  the 
end  of  time. 

A  writer  who  could  make  so  vivid  the  common,  daily 
rounds  of  an  exiled  man's  life  would  have  no  difficulty 
in  picturing  the  daily  life  of  the  individuals  he  saw 
hourly  in  the  streets  of  London.  Defoe  followed  his 
great  success  with  such  books  as  Moll  Flanders,  the  tale 
of  a  female  rogue.  Colonel  Jack,  the  story  of  a  street 
urchin's  degeneration  and  regeneration,  Captain  Single- 
ton, the  story  of  a  man  of  adventures,  and  various  other 
volumes  of  fictitious  biography.  These,  too,  possess  in- 
terest. The  scenes  in  Moll  Flanders  teem  with  rogues 
and  thieves ;  '  *  Captain  Singleton 's  tour  across  Africa  is 
as  good  reading  as  Stanley,  and,  to  the  uninitiated,  it 
seems  quite  as  true  to  fact. ' '  ^  All  are  exceptional 
studies  in  sociology,  and  are  of  no  small  value  to  any 
student  of  the  growth  of  civilization.  But  as  fiction, 
they  do  not  equal  Robinson  Crusoe,  The  events  in  the 
lives  of  all  these  figures  are  not  closely  and  logically 
connected;  but  Crusoe's  day  evolves  from  the  previous 
day;  the  work  of  this  moment  is  the  result  of  yester- 
day's experience. 

It  has  been  claimed  that  Defoe,  like  Richardson, 
wrote  for  moral  purposes.  It  is  exceedingly  doubtful. 
Most  of  his  work  is  modeled  on  the  rogue  story;  he  de- 
scribes the  most  depraved  conditions — without  enthusi- 

6  Cross :     Development  of  the  English  Novel,  p.  29. 
14  209 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

asm,  it  is  true,  but  also  without  sparing  refined  nerves. 
Moll  Flanders  is  a  wretch  devoid  of  conscience,  and 
Defoe  tells  about  her  affairs  in  a  manner  that  shows 
some  lack  of  conscience  in  himself.  Roxana  is  in  part 
downright  corrupt.  Portions  of  the  Journal  of  the 
Plague  Year  and  Colonel  Jack  are  about  as  bad.  And 
yet  Defoe  himself  declares  that  from  such  works  *'just 
and  religious  inference  is  drawn."  Only  in  Crusoe 
does  he  rise  to  a  moral  level  far  above  his  age. 

In  what  things  does  his  masterpiece  lack  the  complete 
nature  of  a  novel  ?  It  has  plot ;  it  has  numerous  inter- 
esting deeds  and  a  fascinating  hero;  but  it  lacks  the 
clash  of  human  wills.  Man's  spiritual  evolution  is  not 
emphasized ;  man 's  conflict  with  the  world  of  other  men 
does  not  enter.  The  great  theme  of  man's  love  for 
woman  is  absent.  It  is  a  ** memoir,"  an  '* imagined 
biography"  of  one  man;  it  does  not  show  the  psycho- 
logical effect  of  those  soul  crises  that  come  into  every 
man's  life.  It  is  more  truly  a  tale  of  man's  physical 
progress  than  of  his  spiritual  evolution.  As  the  story 
of  an  individual,  however,  it  is  a  masterpiece. 

JONATHAN   SWIFT 

Fifteen  years  before  the  appearance  of  Robinson  Cru- 
soe that  human  viper,  Jonathan  Swift,  had  chosen  to 
display  his  satirical  powers  in  two  narratives,  the  Tale 
of  a  Tub  and  the  Battle  of  the  Books;  after  about  a 
quarter  of  a  century  spent  in  lashing  men  and  their 
follies  with  his  deadly  invectives,  he  heaped  up  his 
contempt,  scorn,  disgust,  and  insult  for  all-humanity  in 
his  Gulliver's  Travels  (1726).  He  assumed  contempt 
for  Defoe,  whose  masterpiece  had  appeared  seven  years 

210 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

earlier,  and  purposely  spoke  of  him  as  ''that  fellow 
What  's  His  Name";  and  yet,  in  the  forms  of  the  two 
writers'  chief  books  there  is  considerable  similarity. 
Both  appealed  to  the  travel  instinct  in  the  popular 
reader;  both  told  the  story  of  one  man's  experiences; 
both  used  the  love  theme  but  sparingly  or  not  at  all; 
both  relied  upon  superabundant  details  for  realism; 
both  showed  little  or  none  of  the  soul  growth  that  we 
expect  in  the  novel  of  to-day ;  both  showed  a  surprising 
knowledge  of  the  universal  traits  in  man. 

Swift  was  a  bundle  of  contradictions.  Good-hearted 
in  many  ways,  possessing  genuine  sympathy  for  the  op- 
pressed, generous  with  his  small  means,  appreciative  of 
the  best  in  literature,  he  was,  nevertheless,  a  poisonous 
misanthrope  rankling  with  proud  rage.  His  education 
had  been  furnished  through  the  charity  of  relatives, 
and  he  hated  them  for  it.  Working  for  William  Tem- 
ple, who  was  in  most  things  considerate  enough,  he  al- 
lowed his  soul  to  become  embittered  with  the  idea  of 
servitude.  He  took  no  part  in  the  vices  of  the  day,  and 
preferred  the  company  of  refined  people;  yet,  in  his 
writings  he  found  joy  in  inserting  filth  and  depravity. 
He  would  have  fought  to  the  last  ditch  for  a  friend; 
but  he  declared  he  had  only  forty-four  in  all  the  world, 
and  trusted  only  seventeen  of  these.  A  man  of  gener- 
ous impulses,  he  was  born  in  an  evil  age,  and  the 
hypocrisy,  cruelty,  and  unshamed  vice  of  his  times 
soured  his  soul.  His  early  Tale  of  a  Tub,  sl  satire 
dealing  with  English,  Non-conformist,  and  Catholic 
Churches  (Martin,  Jack,  and  Peter)  was  a  prophecy 
of  what  his  future  work  was  to  be ;  for  in  this  he  found 
very  evident  pleasure  in  lambasting  the  theories,  dis- 

211 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

tinctions,  and  follies  of  the  various  creeds  of  England. 
This  tirade  showed  what  he  could  do  if  given  a  theme 
that  moved  his  soul  to  its  depths.  That  theme  appeared 
in  time  as  the  whole  genus  mankind.  Literary  ambi- 
tion had  no  part  in  that  huge  insult  to  humanity;  it 
was  written  to  relieve  his  overcharged  heart.  The 
first  publisher  stated  that  he  found  The  Travels  of  Lem- 
uel Gulliver  left  at  his  door  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  for  some  time  he  could  not  discover  its  au- 
thor. And  yet,  the  genius  and  art  displayed  in  it  might 
have  been  a  source  of  pride  to  any  master  of  literature. 
Its  success  was  immediate  and  tremendous;  everybody 
wanted  it;  the  price  of  the  first  edition  was  raised  be- 
fore the  second  was  issued,  but  the  sale  continued  un- 
abated. Eeaders  who  cared  little  for  politics  read  it 
for  its  story;  others  who  understood  its  satirical  import 
read  it  with  additional  pleasure ;  some  who  perceived  in 
it  mockery  of  their  own  rank,  creed,  or  folly,  writhed 
under  it. 

As  Swift  progressed  in  this  work,  he  gained  poison 
in  his  invective  and  sweep  in  his  vision.  Many  inter- 
pretations of  the  various  portions  have  been  offered, 
but  we  might  read  into  them  the  following  meanings: 
in  the  first  book,  dealing  with  the  land  oh  Lilliput,  we 
see  how  small  we  might  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  Great 
Euler;  the  second  shows  how  small  we  ourselves  should 
feel  if  brought  into  His  presence ;  the  third,  describing 
the  floating  island  inhabited  by  learned  cranks,  displays 
the  presumption  and  vanity  of  petty  human  intellect; 
while  the  last  heaps  insult  upon  man  universal  by  de- 
scribing a  land  where  horses  and  asses  are  the  masters 
and  man  a  despised  beast  of  burden.     '*  Vanity,  vanity, 

212 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY 

all  is  vanity," — this  is  the  text  of  Swift's  stormy  rav- 
ings, and  in  his  anger  he  pummels  pride  wherever  he 
thinks  he  discovers  it. 

The  mercilessness  of  the  satire  in  the  first  three  parts 
and  the  brutality  of  the  descriptions  in  the  last  portion 
are  almost  incredible.  After  his  visit  to  the  land  of  the 
Yahoos,  where  he  has  seen  man  scorned  by  the  horse 
and  the  ass,  the  very  sight  of  humanity  is  nauseating. 
**I  am  not  in  the  least  provoked  at  the  sight  of  a  law- 
yer, a  pickpocket,  a  colonel,  a  fool,  a  lord,  a  gamester, 
a  politician,  a  physician,  an  evidence,  ...  an  at- 
torney, a  traitor,  or  the  like;  this  is  all  according  to 
the  due  course  of  things;  but  when  I  behold  a  lump  of 
deformity  and  diseases,  both  in  body  and  mind,  smitten 
with  pride,  it  immediately  breaks  all  the  measures  of 
my  patience ;  neither  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  comprehend 
how  such  an  animal,  and  such  a  vice,  could  tally  to- 
gether." Again:  **My  wife  and  family  received  me 
with  great  surprise  and  joy,  because  they  had  con- 
cluded me  certainly  dead;  but  I  must  freely  confess 
the  sight  of  them  filled  me  only  with  hatred,  disgust, 
and  contempt;  and  the  more  by  reflecting  on  the  near 
alliance  I  had  to  them.  ...  As  soon  as  I  entered 
the  house  my  wife  took  me  in  her  arms  and  kissed  me ; 
at  which,  having  not  been  used  to  the  touch  of  that 
odious  animal  for  so  many  years,  I  fell  into  a  swoon 
for  almost  an  hour.  At  the  time  I  am  writing,  it  is  five 
years  since  my  last  return  to  England :  during  the  first 
year  I  could  not  endure  my  wife  or  children  in  my 
presence ;  the  very  smell  of  them  was  intolerable,  much 
less  could  I  suffer  them  to  eat  in  the  same  room." 

In  Lilliput  Land  we  see  our  petty  political  and  re- 
213 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ligious  schemes  through  the  wrong  end  of  the  telescope. 
The  bitterness  of  the  Catholics  and  the  Protestants,  as 
shown  by  the  **  Big-endians''  and  the  *  *  Small-endians, " 
and  the  strivings  of  the  Tories  and  Whigs  as  the  ^  ^  High- 
Heels ''  and  the  **  Low-Heels, "  are  among  the  keenest 
pieces  of  ridicule  in  all  the  world's  literature.  In  the 
Land  of  Brobdingnag  we  see  our  sins  and  follies  through 
the  right  end  of  the  telescope,  and  whether  we  take  the 
giants  to  be  ourselves  magnified,  or  as  creatures  of 
larger  mold  and  character  looking  down  upon  our 
shriveled  figures  and  souls,  the  sarcasm  never  relaxes. 
When  Gulliver  described  England  to  the  king  of  these 
giants,  that  monarch  was  moved  to  exclaim:  '^It  was 
only  a  heap  of  conspiracies,  rebellions,  murders,  massa- 
cres, revolutions,  banishments,  the  very  worst  effects 
that  avarice,  faction,  hypocrisy,  perfidiousness,  cruelty, 
rage,  madness,  hatred,  envy,  lust,  malice,  and  ambition 
could  produce.  .  .  .  My  little  friend,  Grildrig,  you 
have  made  a  most  admirable  panegyric  upon  your  coun- 
try; you  have  clearly  proved  that  ignorance,  idleness 
and  vice  are  the  proper  ingredients  for  qualifying  leg- 
islators; that  laws  are  best  explained,  interpreted,  and 
supplied  by  those  whose  interests  and  abilities  lie  in 
perverting,  confounding  and  eluding  them.  ...  I 
can  not  but  conclude  the  bulk  of  your  natives  to  be  the 
most  pernicious  race  of  little  odious  vermin  that  nature 
ever  suffered  to  crawl  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth." 
Lest  the  educated  should  think  themselves  free  from 
the  feebleness  of  mankind.  Swift  devotes  that  clever 
third  book  to  them.  In  the  Island  of  Laputa,  we  come 
upon  philosophers  extracting  sunbeams  from  cucum- 
bers, softening  marble  for  pillows  and  pincushions,  and 

214 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

undertaking  other  mineeessary  and  profitless,  but 
highly  ''scientific''  tasks.  And  it  may  be  noted  here 
that  such  schemes  were  no  worse  than  some  actually  ad- 
vertised in  Swift's  own  time.  An  enterprise  was  in- 
deed advertised  to  ''import  jackasses  from  Spain" — as 
though  England  had  not  enough  of  its  own.  Only  in 
our  journey  to  the  land  of  Houyhnhnm  do  we  find  the 
satire  overreaching  itself.  This  can  not  be  a  true 
picture  of  mankind;  the  spite  is  too  evident.  We  are 
now  reading  the  ravings  of  a  depraved  and  almost 
maddened  intellect.  The  disgusting  lowne^  of  the 
human  beings  in  this  land  might  apply  to  certain  indi- 
viduals of  the  eighteenth  century;  but  man  as  a  whole 
has  never  sunk  so  deep,  and  never  will  sink  to  such  a 
plane.  It  is  the  perception  of  only  the  beast  in  hu- 
manity. 

As  has  been  pointed  out.  Swift  was  happy  in  his 
choice  of  form  for  this  satire.  The  old  travel  story, 
so  familiar  to  English  readers,  allowed  a  free  use  of 
marvels,  monsters,  and  detailed,  circumstantial  state- 
ments of  scenes  not  to  be  contradicted  by  an  ignorant 
stay-at-home  public.  Then,  too.  Swift's  apparent  ac- 
curacy makes  the  whole  affair  seem  real.  He  tells  us 
just  when  he  sailed;  he  states  just  where  he  was 
wrecked ;  each  proportion  in  either  dwarf  land  or  giant 
land  is  seemingly  a  true  one.  Only  in  the  Land  of 
Houyhnhnms  do  we  perceive  the  impossible.  Horses 
are  not  physically  constructed  to  build,  eat,  and  live  as 
there  described. 

Addison  and  Steele  had  impressed  the  importance  of 
character  portrayal  in  fiction;  Defoe  had  shown  the 
strength  of  a  realistic  series  of  events  centered  about 

215 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

one  individual;  Swift  had  done  the  same  thing,  had 
added  wit  and  humor,  and  had  pointed  out  the  power 
of  fiction  in  dealing  with  the  follies,  affectations,  and 
vices  of  mankind.  Another  step,  and  the  novel,  as  we 
understand  it  to-day,  would  be  created. 

ELIZA   HAYWOOD 

That  step  was  almost  taken  by  a  woman,  Mrs.  Eliza 
Haywood  (d.  1756),  a  disciple  of  Mrs.  Manley,  of  the 
previous  century,  and  a  forerunner  of  Frances  Burney, 
whose  Evelina  was  a  source  of  inspiration  to  Jane  Aus- 
ten. Pope  gave  the  woman  lasting  fame  in  his  Dun- 
dad: 

See  in  the  circle  next  Eliza  placed. 

Two  babes  of  love  close  clinging  to  her  waist; 

Fair  as  before  her  works  she  stands  confessed. 

In  flowers  and  pearls  by  bounteous  Kirkall  dressed. 

As  a  follower  of  Mrs.  Manley  and  Mrs.  Behn  she  is 
not  at  all  squeamish  about  moral  filth;  but  she  under- 
stands to  some  degree  what  Defoe  and  Swift  seemed  not 
to  comprehend,  the  psychology  of  love,  and,  though 
the  love  described  is  often  little  more  than  beastly  pas- 
sion, she  makes  some  use  of  its  effects  and  its  ability  to 
create  a  clash  of  wills  in  such  works  as  her  British  Be- 
cluse  (1722),  Idalia  (1723),  Memoirs  of  a  Certain  Is- 
land Adjacent  to  Utopia  (1725),  Secret  Intrigues  of  the 
Count  of  Caramania  (1727),  and  a  host  of  other  stories 
of  less  scope,  such  as  Love  in  Excess,  The  Injured  Hus- 
hand,  and  the  Fortunate  Foundling, 

It  was  not,  however,  until  1751,  after  Richardson  had 
written  two  books  fulfilling  our  conception  of  a  true 

216 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

novel,  and  Fielding  had  created  one  of  the  world's  mas- 
terpieces in  fiction,  that  Mrs.  Haywood  gained  her  first 
real  triumph  in  literature.  Miss  Betsy  Thoughtless  is 
the  first  domestic  novel  in  the  English  language,  the  first 
to  find  its  field  in  home  life,  the  first  to  point  out  the 
themes  which  Jane  Austen  afterwards  handled  in  such 
a  masterly  manner.  Many  portions  of  this  story  are 
decidedly  clever.  Betsy  Thoughtless,  because  of  her 
scatter-brain  nature,  is  constantly  falling  into  troubles. 
She  is  flattered  by  numerous  lovers,  but  loses  the  only 
one  she  cares  for,  Mr.  Trueworth,  because  of  her  impa- 
tience and  imprudence.  An  orphan  at  fifteen,  she  goes 
to  London  and  lives  in  the  home  of  her  guardian,  Mr. 
Goodman,  a  wealthy  merchant  who  has  married  a  hypo- 
critical young  widow.  The  widow's  daughter,  Flora,  is 
caught  in  an  intrigue  by  Betsy,  who  peeps  through  a 
crack  in  the  bedroom  wall,  and  thus  gains  her  first 
lesson  in  vice.  She  now  meets  her  former  schoolmate. 
Miss  Forward,  who  has  lost  her  virtue,  and  by  associa- 
tion with  this  woman,  Betsy  loses  all  of  Trueworth 's  re- 
gard. Flora,  indeed,  has  written  anonymous  letters  to 
him  about  her,  and  he,  in  disgust,  marries  another 
woman.  Mrs.  Goodman  has  an  intrigue  with  a  former 
lover,  Marplus,  who  has  her  bond  for  large  amounts. 
At  length  her  husband,  responsible  for  his  wife's  con- 
tracts, is  arrested  for  this  debt,  and  dies  from  the  shock 
and  the  disgrace.  Betsy  has  meanwhile  moved  to 
private  lodgings,  and  there  meets  a  valet  who  assumes 
to  be  a  knight,  and  with  him  she  goes  through  a  sham 
marriage.  From  this  predicament  she  is  rescued  by 
Trueworth.  She  now  marries,  and  her  husband  proves 
a  rascal ;  but  this  discipline  makes  her  a  woman  of  self- 

217 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

control  and  quiet  manner.  She  is  now  persecuted  with 
the  libertine  advances  of  a  nobleman;  she  leaves  home 
because  of  her  husband's  intri^es  with  a  French 
woman.  Now  the  husband  falls  sick,  and  she  faith- 
fully nurses  him  until  his  death.  Then  Trueworth's 
wife  very  kindly  dies,  and  of  course  the  natural  thing 
happens. 

*'  'Oh!  have  I  lived  to  see  you  thus,'  cried  he,  'thus 
ravishingly  kind!'  'And  have  I  lived,'  rejoined  she, 
'to  receive  these  proofs  of  affection  from  the  best  and 
most  ill  used  of  men?  Oh!  Trueworth!  Trueworth!' 
added  she,  'I  have  not  merited  this  from  you.'  'You 
merit  all  things,'  said  he;  'let  us  talk  no  more  of  what 
is  past,  but  tell  me  that  you  now  are  mine;  I  came  to 
make  you  so  by  the  irrevocable  ties  of  love  and  law, 
and  we  must  now  part  no  more!  Speak,  my  angel, 
my  first,  my  last  charmer ! '  continued  he  perceiving  she 
was  silent,  blushed,  and  hung  down  her  head.  'Let 
those  dear  lips  confirm  my  happiness  and  say  the  time 
is  come,  that  you  will  be  all  mine. '  .  .  .  'You  know 
you  have  my  heart/  cried  she,  'and  cannot  doubt  my 
hand.'" 

Here  is  an  excellent  plot ; .  here,  too,  are  characters 
decidedly  real,  but  the  same  low  view  of  love  so  evident 
in  the  previous  century,  is  once  more  portrayed;  men 
and  women  have  no  spiritual  relations;  every  woman 
too  easily  falls  a  victim  to  temptation;  every  man  is 
represented  as  at  all  times  on  the  verge  of  the  beastly. 
There  is,  however,  one  redeeming  trait:  the  scoundrels 
lose  the  game  and  the  virtuous  win  it.  There  is  much 
nonsense,  much  hypocrisy,  much  downright  vice;  but 
still  it  marks  some  healthful  tendencies  in  the  eight- 

218 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

eenth  century.  For  example,  we  find  this  commentary 
on  duelling:  '^Mr.  Trueworth  could  not  help  joining 
with  the  ladies  in  condemning  the  folly  of  that  custom 
which,  contrary  to  the  known  laws  of  the  land,  and 
oftentimes  contrary  to  his  own  reason,  too,  obliges  the 
gentleman  either  to  obey  the  call  of  the  person  who 
challenges  him  to  the  field,  or,  by  refusing,  submit  him- 
self, not  only  to  all  the  insults  his  adversary  is  pleased 
to  treat  him  with,  but  also  be  branded  with  the  infamous 
character  of  a  coward  by  all  that  know  him." 

This,  then,  is  a  full-fledged  novel ;  but  remember  that 
it  came  eleven  years  after  Richardson  had  shown  the 
English  people  the  true  scope  and  significance  of  the 
new  type  of  literature.  Mrs.  Haywood  was  but  one  of 
the  many  who  learned  their  art  from  the  fat,  bashful, 
tea-drinking,  effeminate  publisher  of  London. 

< 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

**0h,  Richardson!''  cries  Diderot,  **thou  shalt  rest 
in  the  same  class  with  Moses,  Homer,  Euripides  and 
Sophocles,  to  be  read  alternately."  Never,  perhaps,  in 
all  literary  history,  has  another  man  sprung  into  such 
inunediate  and  high  fame  as  had  this  London  book- 
seller. Never  before  had  a  writer  been  so  lionized,  so 
deluged  with  tearful  letters,  so  praised,  so  worshiped 
by  sentimental  women,  and  so  sneered  at  by  men  of 
coarser  fiber. 

Bom  in  Derbyshire  in  1689,  he  was  as  a  child  ab- 
normally prudent  and  unnaturally  good.  His  school- 
mates called  him  Mr.  Gravity,  but  liked  him  for  his 
stories;  as  an  apprentice,  he  bought  his  own  candles  in 
order  that  his  master  might  not  suffer  loss  by  his  night 

219 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

study;  at  the  age  of  ten  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  a 
widow  of  fifty  rebuking  her  for  her  frivolity.  A  sort 
of  English  Ben  Franklin,  he  possessed,  however,  far 
more  sentimentality.  A  man  who  preferred  the  society 
of  women,  he  possessed  a  masculine  business  ability,  and 
by  his  fiftieth  year  he  was  one  of  the  most  important  prin- 
ters in  England,  and  Master  of  the  Stationers'  Company. 
Undoubtedly  a  virtuous  soul,  he  nevertheless  lacked  the 
iron  strength  of  such  a  man  as  Scott  or  of  such  a  woman 
as  George  Eliot. 

It  was  in  1739  that  the  publishers,  Eivington  and 
Osborne,  urged  this  seemingly  commonplace,  uninspired, 
retiring  gentleman  to  write  *'a  book  of  familiar  letters 
on  the  useful  concerns  of  common  life."  In  his  busi- 
ness-like way  Eichardson  at  once  went  to  work  at  the 
task  and  had  composed  several  of  the  letters  when  the 
idea  occurred  to  him  to  put  a  plot  into  the  collection 
— ^^not  the  pomp  and  parade  of  romance  writing,''  but 
something  that  might  tend  to  promote  the  cause  of  re- 
ligion and  virtue.  Choosing  a  story  he  had  once  heard 
of  the  marriage  of  a  common  girl  to  a  nobleman,  he 
brought  forth  in  1740  the  first  English  novel  complete 
in  every  essential — Pamela,  or  Virtue  Rewarded.  What 
a  furor  it  raised!  Here  was  something  new  under  the 
sun.  Young,  the  author  of  the  Night  Thoughts^  called 
him  an  instrument  of  Providence ;  preachers  praised  him 
from  the  pulpit;  ladies  hid  themselves  in  the  parks  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  him.  It  is  said  on  the  authority  of 
Sir  John  Herschel  that  when  a  blacksmith  read  the 
book  to  the  village  neighbors  collected  in  his  shop,  and 
they  found  at  the  close  that  Pamela  had  married  her 
master,  they  shouted  in  their  happiness,  forced  the  sex- 

220 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 
ton  to  open  the  church  door,   and  rang  the  bell  for 

joy- 

What  is  the  substance  of  the  work  that  could  so  affect 
the  high  and  the  low  of  several  nations?  The  gist  of 
the  whole  plot  is  simply  this:  Pamela,  a  servant  girl, 
is  tempted,  threatened,  and  mistreated  by  her  young 
master,  whose  mother,  on  her  death-bed,  had  commended 
Pamela  to  his  services;  but  the  young  girl,  through  all 
the  harassing  circumstances,  retains  her  virtue,  and  at 
length,  seeing  the  opportunity  for  a  splendid  match, 
** angles"  with  the  young  squire,  as  Gosse  puts  it,  and 
*  *  lands  him  at  last,  like  an  exhausted  salmon. ' '  All  this 
is  in  the  form  of  letters  to  and  from  her  parents,  with 
every  detail  of  the  incidents,  every  phase  of  the  emo- 
tions, every  thought,  fear,  and  hope  of  the  heroine  re- 
corded and  analyzed.  To  many  modern  readers  this 
leisurely  business  might  be  little  short  of  maddening, 
but  Samuel  Johnson's  reply  to  Erskine  on  this  very 
subject  may  well  be  offered  in  defense:  **Why,  sir, 
if  you  were  to  read  Richardson  for  the  story,  your  im- 
patience would  be  so  much  fretted  that  you  would  hang 
yourself ;  but  you  must  read  him  for  the  sentiment, 
and  consider  the  story  as  only  giving  occasion  to  the 
sentiment. ' ' 

Doubtless  Richardson  thought  he  was  writing  an  ex- 
ceedingly moral  book.  He  declared  that  it  could  be 
read  '*  without  raising  a  single  idea  throughout  the  whole 
that  shall  shock  the  exactest  purity."  And  yet,  to  the 
reader  of  our  time,  many  portions  of  the  novel  seem 
dangerously  suggestive.  Pamela's  endeavors  in  the  ear- 
lier chapters  are  strictly  defensive;  but  when  she  be- 
gins to  **fish"  for  the  passionate  young  squire,  schem- 

221 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ing  prudence  takes  the  place  of  a  genuine  regard  for 
virtue,  and  she  no  longer  holds  our  sympathy.  Then, 
too,  the  unbridled  passion  of  her  lover  might  indeed 
shock  the  exactest  purity,  and  yet,  this  rascal  gets  all 
the  sweets  and  not  the  least  punishment.  But  readers 
of  the  eigMeenth  century  could  scarcely  be  made  any 
worse,  and  doubtless  could  be  made  better  by  the  pe- 
rusal of  such  a  story.  The  dangers  Pamela  experienced 
would  not  have  been  surprising  to  her  contemporaries, 
while  her  steady  resistance  not  only  may  have  been  sur- 
prising, but  may  have  aroused  the  quite  unusual  ambi- 
tion to  live  a  similar  life  of  virtue. 

In  spite  of  these  moral  defects,  the  book  sounds  de- 
cidedly natural.  Pamela's  letters  especially  possess  this 
quality.  Truly  the  story  is  without  *Hhe  pomp  and 
parade  of  romance  writing, ' '  but  is  something  far  better 
— a  picture  from  real  life.  Long  years  of  observation 
of  woman's  nature  had  made  Kichardson  master  of  its 
secret  workings.  As  a  mere  boy  he  had  written  many 
a  love-letter  for  the  village  girls;  as  a  man  he  had 
many  women  associates.  They  gathered  at  his  home  and 
called  him  ^^papa."  He  knew,  therefore,  exactly  what 
sentiments  were  strongest  in  them,  what  emotions  prro- 
duced  other  emotions.  He  made  the  analysis  of  the  soul 
no  longer  a  matter  of  guess  work,  but  a  scientific  method 
based  on  close  personal  investigation. 

In  1741  Richardson  published  in  two  volumes  a  sequel 
to  Pamela,  in  which  the  wife  is  shown  in  sorrow  be- 
cause of  the  squire's  infidelity.  This,  however,  seems 
not  to  have  attracted  a  wide  notice,  and  seven  years 
passed  before  his  second  triumph  appeared.  Clarissa 
Harlowe,  issued  in  seven  volumes  in  1748,  is  a  master- 

222 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

piece.  Alfred  de  Musset  declares  it  the  best  novel  in 
the  world.  Fielding's  sister  wrote:  *'I  am  over- 
whelmed ;  my  only  vent  is  tears. ' '  CoUey  Cibber,  when 
he  heard  that  the  villain  would  bring  Clarissa  to  die 
miserably,  wrote  Eichardson:  '^God  damn  him  if  she 
should!"  Such  expressions  but  prove  that  the  heroine 
is  a  living  personage.  Here,  indeed,  is  the  modern 
subtle  analysis  of  the  heart.  Psychology,  not  mere  in- 
cident, is  the  source  of  interest;  not  the  deed,  but  the 
motive  back  of  the  deed  and  the  resulting  relationship 
with  the  next  deed,  the  temptations  and  defenses  of 
human  nature,  the  failures  and  the  remorse,  the  sus- 
taining power  of  ideals,  the  conflict  of  the  two  influ- 
ences, the  animal  and  the  spiritual,  forever  striving  in 
each  individual — these  are  elements  that  make  the  char- 
acters of  Clarissa  Harlowe  living  beings  and  give 
them  the  power  to  do  that  which  few  early  fictitious 
personages  could  do — the  power  to  arouse  us  to  pity, 
hatred,  disgust,  sympathy,  a  multitude  of  varied  emo- 
tions. The  beings  here  portrayed  become  our  ac- 
quaintances, as  real  as  those  about  us,  and  we  are  con- 
strained to  agree  with  Diderot  when  he  says:  '*At  the 
close  of  the  work  I  seemed  to  remain  deserted." 

In  this  story,  instead  of  conquering  and  winning  the 
passionate  lover,  the  heroine  becomes  a  martyr  to  the 
man's  licentiousness.  By  the  aid  of  the  villain,  Love- 
lace, Clarissa  runs  away  from  her  tyrannical  parents, 
and  after  being  vainly  tempted  by  this  lover,  she  is 
taken  to  a  low  haunt,  drugged,  and  debauched.  Love- 
lace, now  touched  by  some  remorse,  offers  to  marry  her ; 
but  she  refuses  and  dies,  partly  from  the  result  of  her 
rough  treatment,  but  more  from  shame  and  anguish. 

223 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

There  is  a  certain  inevitableness  about  this  work  never 
before  seen  in  English  literature  outside  the  drama. 
The  ending  is  bitter  and  cruel ;  but  it  is  the  one  ending, 
the  necessary  outcome  of  a  group  of  fatally  associated 
events.  Prolix  the  book  may  be — in  early  editions  Clar- 
issa's will  covers  nineteen  closely  printed  pages — but 
the  dramatic  atmosphere  and  the  pathos  resulting  from 
a  masterly  picture  of  a  clash  of  wills  and  the  unde- 
served defeat  of  one  of  these  wills,  cause  us  to  forgive 
the  length.  The  ending  seems  merciless;  but,  then, 
many  catastrophies  in  real  life  are  apparently  so.  Our 
sense  of  justice  is  somewhat  satisfied  by  Lovelace's  death 
in  a  duel  resulting  from  the  crime;  but  every  reader 
must  feel  that  here  wickedness  crushes  the  innocent. 
We  can  not  wonder  that  a  lady  wrote  Richardson  that 
if  Clarissa  came  to  a  bad  end,  ^^may  the  hatred  of  all 
the  young,  beautiful  and  virtuous  forever  be  your  por- 
tion! And  may  your  eyes  never  behold  anything  but 
age  and  deformity !  May  you  meet  with  applause  only 
from  envious  old  maids,  surly  bachelors  aad  tyrannical 
parents !  May  you  be  doomed  to  the  company  of  such, 
and  after  death  may  their  ugly  souls  haunt  you ! ' ' 

Thus,  in  his  second  plot,  closely  woven  and  centering 
always  about  the  heroine,  this  first  master  of  the  novel 
created  a  work  to  some  extent  rivaling  the  Othello  of 
the  great  master  of  the  drama  in  the  subtlety  of  its 
villainy,  the  gradual  weakening  of  the  will-power,  and 
a  certain  high  fatalism.  The  book  was  quickly  translated 
into  the  French,  German,  and  Dutch;  its  influence  is 
discernible  in  almost  every  modern  literature  of  western 
Europe. 

In  a  letter  of  1756  Hichardson  wrote:  ''I  am  teased 
224 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

by  a  dozen  ladies  of  note  and  virtue  to  give  them  a  good 
man,  as  they  say  I  have  been  partial  to  their  sex  and 
unkind  to  my  own. ' '  His  next  attempt  in  fiction,  there- 
fore, was  to  picture  an  ideal  gentleman,  and  the  result 
was  that  cad.  Sir  Charles  Grandison.  This  monster  of 
gentility  made  his  graceful  and  highly  polite  bow  to 
the  public  in  1754,  some  time  after  both  Fielding  and 
Smollett  had  shown  England  some  very  real  but  not 
exactly  ideal  heroes.  Sir  Charles  *^acts  uniformly  well 
through  a  variety  of  trying  scenes  because  all  his  ac- 
tions are  regulated  by  one  steady  principle";  his 
''damnable  iteration"  of  polite  goodness  is  one  of  the 
most  exasperating  traits  (to  a  man  reader)  in  all  litera- 
ture. Tuckerman  sums  it  up  well  when  he  says: 
''He  can  afford  to  be  generous  because  he  is  rich;  he 
can  afford  to  decline  a  duel  because  his  reputation  for 
skill  in  swordsmanship  is  so  well  established  that  he 
runs  no  danger  of  being  called  a  coward;  he  is  free 
from  licentiousness  because  his  passions  are  under  per- 
fect control."^ 

Again  the  ladies  waxed  enthusiastic.  The  book  had 
an  enormous  sale;  unmarried  women  looked  about  for 
young  Grandisons;  the  married  wondered  why  their 
husbands  were  not  more  like  this  insipid  being.  So  far 
as  we  may  gather  from  the  writings  of  the  day,  we 
judge  that  the  hero  was  rather  amusing  to  male  readers 
of  the  period.  Perhaps,  also,  he  was  a  source  of  some 
curiosity — ^he  was  so  utterly  different  from  the  actual 
gentleman  of  the  day  that  he  must  have  been  exceed- 
ingly interesting,  just  as  some  newly  discovered  animal 
would  now  be.  Note  but  this  specimen  from  the  work: 
•  History  of  English  Prose  Fiction^  p.  197. 
"  225 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

**He  met  me,  and  taking  my  not-withdrawn  hand  and 
peering  in  my  face,  *  Mercy,'  said  he,  'the  same  kind 
aspect !  the  same  sweet  and  obliging  countenance !  How 
can  this  be  ?  But  you  fnust  be  gracious !  you  will!  Say 
you  will. ' 

*'  'You  must  not  urge  me.  Sir  Rowland.  You  will 
give  me  pain  if  you  lay  me  under  the  necessity  to  re- 
peat— ' 

*'  'Eepeat  what?  Don't  say  a  refusal.  Dear  madam, 
don't  say  a  refusal!  Will  you  not  save  a  life?  Why, 
madam,  my  poor  boy  is  absolutely  and  hona  fide  broken- 
hearted. I  would  have  had  him  come  with  me;  but 
no,  he  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  beloved  of  his  soul! 
.  .  .  Come,  come,  be  gracious!  be  merciful.  Dear 
lady,  be  as  good  as  you  look  to  be.  One  word  of  com- 
fort for  my  poor  boy ;  I  could  kneel  to  you  for  one  word 
of  comfort — nay,  I  will  kneel' ; — ^taking  hold  of  my  other 
hand  as  he  still  held  one ;  and  down  on  his  knees  dropped 
the  honest  knight. ' ' 

Grandison  has  what  Dickens  calls  ''a  clean-cravated 
formality  of  manner  and  a  kitchen-pokerness  of  car- 
riage." Clearly,  Richardson,  who  knew  English  middle 
life  so  well,  knew  almost  nothing  of  aristocratic  circles. 
How  ridiculous  is  the  proposal  of  Sir  Charles ! 

''In  a  soothing,  tender  and  respectful  manner  he 
put  his  arm  around  me,  and  taking  my  own  handker- 
chief unresisted  wiped  away  the  tears  as  they  fell  on 
my  cheek.  'Sweet  humanity!  charming  sensibility! 
Check  not  the  kindly  gush.  Dew-drops  of  Heaven! 
(wiping  away  my  tears,  and  kissing  the  handkerchief) 
dew-drops  of  Heaven,  from  a  mind  like  that  Heaven, 
mild  and  gracious.' 

226 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

**He  kissed  my  hand  with  fervour;  dropped  down 
on  one  knee;  again  kissed  it.  'You  have  laid  me, 
madam,  under  everlasting  obligations ;  and  will  you  per- 
mit me  before  I  rise,  loveliest  of  women,  will  you  permit 
me  to  beg  an  early  day?' 

**He  clasped  me  in  his  arms  with  an  ardour  that  dis- 
pleased me  not,  on  reflection;  but  at  the  time  startled 
me.  He  then  thanked  me  again  on  one  knee.  I  held 
out  the  hand  he  had  not  in  his  with  intent  to  raise  him ; 
for  I  could  not  speak.  He  received  it  as  a  token  of  fa- 
vour, kissed  it  with  ardour;  arose,  again  pressed  my 
cheek  with  his  lips." 

Yet  the  book  has  some  great  pages.  Lady  Clemen- 
tina's madness  over  Sir  Charles  is  a  vivid  and  touching 
episode,  while  the  mock  marriage  of  the  future  wife 
of  Sir  Charles  is  a  powerful  scene,  entirely  worthy  of 
Scott  or  Dickens.  Say  what  we  may  against  the  hero 
himself,  we  are  compelled  to  admire  the  subtle  analysis 
found  here  as  in  the  other  volumes  by  Richardson.  In- 
deed, this  appreciation  of  the  moods  of  the  human  soul 
is  so  keen  and  so  unabating  that  the  reading  of  this 
author's  three  books  is  rather  wearing  on  the  nerves. 
They  are  long,  and  they  demand  and  obtain  the  closest 
attention  to  details.  Every  little  emotion  is  stressed; 
its  influence  may  turn  out  to  be  the  great  motive  of 
the  main  deed  in  the  book.  It  is  the  sort  of  work  which 
Jane  Austen  could  do,  but  which  was  beyond  Scott; 
the  kind  which  Hawthorne  mastered,  but  which  was  be- 
yond the  ability  of  Cooper.  The  way  in  which  Rich- 
ardson expresses  himself  does  not  seem  extraordinary; 
perhaps  its  chief  excellence  is  that  it  calls  no  atten- 
tion to  itself.     In  his  first  novel,  at  least,  he  lacks  the 

227 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

sense  of  proportion;  he  is  almost  devoid  of  humor,  he 
is  leisurely  to  exasperation.  But  the  power  is  there, 
nevertheless,  and  its  source  lies  in  an  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  the  moods,  sentiments,  and  motives  that  move 
mankind,  and  in  the  ability  to  apply  these  in  a  real- 
istic and  logical  manner  to  a  group  of  vividly  portrayed 
beings. 

His  contributions  to  the  progress  of  English  fiction 
are,  therefore,  very  clear.  He  brought  to  it  not  only 
real  life,  but  contemporary  life;  he  emphasized  states 
of  mind  rather  than  deeds;  he  greatly  advanced  the 
use  of  conversation  as  a  means  of  delineating  character ; 
he  pointed  out  the  value  of  details;  of  all  writers  of 
fiction  up  to  his  time  he  made  the  most  fruitful  use  of 
analysis  of  emotions.  What  is  perhaps  of  more  im- 
portance, he  inspired  the  man  who  was  long  considered 
the  first  genuine  master  of  fiction — Henry  Fielding. 

HENRY  FIELDING 

Henry  Fielding  (1707-1754)  lawyer,  dramatist,  novel- 
ist, zealous  officer,  and  prince  of  good  fellows  in  his 
day,  was  born  in  Somersetshire,  was  educated  at  Eton 
and  Leyden,  and  was  in  London  by  his  twenty-first  year 
trying  to  make  a  living  by  his  pen  or  by  any  other 
means  that  came  handy.  An  enormous  fellow  with  a 
fine  set  of  nerves,  he  possessed  an  immense  capacity 
for  enjoyment,  and  whether  his  satires  or  plays  suc- 
ceeded, or  whether  not  a  penny  jingled  in  his  pocket, 
he  secured  about  all  the  pleasure  that  any  one  moment 
could  produce.  In  all,  he  wrote  twenty-eight  plays, 
some  of  which — such  as  Tom  Thumb  the  Great  (1730), 
and  the  Historical  Register   (1737) — ^had  considerable 

228 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

success.  Fielding  was,  however,  a  man  who  had  no 
prudence  in  financial  matters,  and,  his  constant  lack 
of  money  driving  him  into  a  renewed  effort  to  learn 
law,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  that  momentous 
year  of  his  life,  1740.  This  was  the  very  year  in  which 
Eichardson's  Pamela  set  the  ladies  to  weeping,  and 
some  of  the  gentlemen  to  laughing.  Fielding  was  one 
of  those  who  laughed.  The  whole  thing  seemed  to  him 
so  ridiculous  that  he  at  once  determined  to  write  a  bur- 
leque  on  the  story. 

Joseph  Andrews  appeared  in  1742.  Choosing  Joseph, 
the  brother  of  Pamela  as  the  hero.  Fielding  has  him 
tempted  by  a  passionate  widow,  just  as  Pamela  was 
tempted  by  the  young  squire.  Invitingly  ridiculous  as 
this  idea  was.  Fielding  soon  became  so  interested  in 
his  young  hero,  and  in  the  strongly  human  soul,  Parson 
Adams,  that  after  the  first  five  chapters  he  almost  de- 
serted the  idea  of  burlesque,  and  wrought  a  piece  of 
work  rarely  excelled  in  its  firm  grip  upon  the  traits 
of  human  nature  and  in  its  sharp  delineation  of  char- 
acters. Fielding  declares  that  he  took  Cervantes  as 
his  model;  but  Don  Quixote  is  a  book  of  types,  while 
this  is  a  collection  of  distinctly  individualized  beings. 
The  plot  perhaps  is  not  in  all  points  admirable.  It 
seems  to  consist  of  a  series  of  parallel  events  or  subplots, 
rather  hastily  brought  to  some  semblance  of  union  near 
the  close  of  the  book;  but  nevertheless  the  business 
moves  right  on,  and  whatever  interruptions  exist  are 
so  excellent  that  we  gladly  forgive  them  for  temporarily 
stopping  the  current.  It  is  splendid  masculine  comedy, 
and  breathes  a  freedom  and  breadth  unknown  to  Rich- 
ardson's hothouse  productions. 

229 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  difference  between  the  two  men's  experiences 
and  view-points  is  at  once  recognized.  Eichardson  was 
acquainted  with  women  and  a  world  of  feminine  emo- 
tions; Fielding  with  men  and  a  world  of  masculine  ac- 
tivities. Moreover,  Fielding  knew  the  dramatic  in  life ; 
he  had  been  a  successful  play-writer ;  he  had  what  Rich- 
ardson hardly  possessed  in  any  degree — a  sense  of  hu- 
mor ;  he  saw  the  follies  of  men,  but  unlike  Richardson  he 
seems  to  have  had  no  desire  to  set  up  a  rigid  code  for 
other  people's  morals.  He  was  charitable  enough  to 
forgive  some  of  the  petty  sins  that  Richardson  con- 
sidered signs  of  dangerous  depravity.  Richardson  knew 
thoroughly  the  middle  class  only;  Fielding  knew  all 
classes.  Lady  Mary  Montagu  was  his  cousin;  his  sec- 
ond wife  was  a  woman  from  the  lower  ranks,  his  chil- 
dren's nurse.  He  was  born  of  a  well-to-do  aristocratic 
family,  but  he  drank  and  quarreled  with  thugs  of  the 
sponging  house.  As  an  officer  of  the  law  he  looked 
into  dens  of  vice,  courts,  prisons,  a  multitude  of  places. 
He  possessed,  therefore,  a  breadth  of  vision  utterly  im- 
possible to  Richardson.  The  little  fat  book-printer, 
moreover,  was  never  in  the  best  of  health,  and  often 
complained  of  his  nerves;  Fielding  was  a  healthy  ani- 
mal, and  never  knew  he  had  nerves  until  near  the  day  of 
his  death.  The  result  is  that  his  books  are  full  of 
healthy  animal  activity.  Coarse  he  undoubtedly  is ;  but 
remember  he  is  describing  his  own  day,  and,  describing 
real  life,  just  as  Charles  Dickens  did  for  the  nineteenth 
century,  he  could  not  paint  the  ugly  beautiful.  We 
should  bear  in  mind  also  that  it  is  not  frankness,  but 
suggestiveness  that  is  dangerous.  The  sight  of  an  ab- 
solutely nude  figure  might  be  disgusting;  one  draped 

230 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

in  gauze  might  rouse  all  the  latent  beast  in  an  observer. 
In  the  long  run  the  essentially  good  wins  here,  just  as 
surely  as  in  Richardson's  work;  but  the  ** sissy''  stands 
no  chance.  Parson  Adams  and  Tom  Jones  are  at  heart 
good  men,  but  decidedly  bad  fellows  in  a  fight.  They 
would  have  suffocated  in  Richardson's  novels. 

When,  therefore,  Joseph  Andrews  appeared,  the  more 
discriminating  readers  of  the  day  at  once  realized  that 
here  was  a  book  closer  to  the  truth  of  human  nature 
and  life  in  general  than  the  experiences  and  emotions 
of  Pamela,  who  had  caused  so  many  tears  two  or  three 
years  earlier.  Joseph  Andrews  is  of  course  supposed 
to  be  the  hero ;  but,  beside  the  huge  figure  of  the  plain- 
spoken  and  big-fisted  Parson  Adams,  he  is  dwarfed  and 
overshadowed.  The  parson  is  one  of  the  immortal 
figures  of  fiction.  In  his  lovable  eccentricities,  his 
forgetfulness,  his  independence,  his  fearlessness,  his  thor- 
ough contempt  for  hypocrisy,  his  mercifulness,  his  un- 
bounded generosity,  and  his  blunt  common  sense,  he  is 
human  from  head  to  foot,  and  must  be  given  a  place 
in  the  first  rank  of  vividly  delineated  figures  in  the 
world  of  fiction.  Joseph  Andrews  is  as  sentimental  and 
ridiculous  as  his  sister  Pamela,  and  Richardson  evermore 
hated  Fielding  for  the  picture.  Mrs.  Slipslop,  the  pig- 
gish Parson  Trulliber,  and  some  of  the  other  personages 
seem  almost  caricatures,  instead  of  characters ;  but  they 
give  us  a  view  of  the  sordid  conditions  of  the  eighteenth 
century  just  as  credible  as  that  presented  by  Richard- 
son. 

Fortune  was  now  smiling  upon  the  burly  author.  In 
1743,  while  the  wave  of  popularity  was  still  high,  he 
collected  three  volumes  of  his  miscellaneous  writings, 

231 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and  here  we  find  some  pieces  now  unjustly  neglected, 
but  in  their  day  the  source  of  wide-spread  entertain- 
ment. The  second  volume  contains  the  now  laughable, 
now  bitter  Journey  from  this  World  to  the  Next,  one 
of  the  most  ludicrous  episodes  in  which  is  the  flight  of 
a  number  of  ghosts  when  the  spirit  of  a  man  who  had 
recently  died  of  smallpox  tries  to  enter  their  company. 
In  the  third  volume  we  come  across  that  cold-blooded, 
cynical,  cruelly  polite  satire  entitled  Jonathan  Wild, 
the  Great,  Seldom  has  literature  been  more  caustic  than 
this.  Bowing  most  courteously,  Fielding  leads  his  vil- 
lain with  mock  deference  from  the  cradle,  through  a 
life  of  crime,  to  the  gallows.  The  irony  is  so  continuous, 
so  calm,  so  merciless  that  the  reader  is  liable  to  be- 
come angry;  in  Fielding's  day  it  must  have  been  a  mad- 
dening rebuke  to  many  a  young  London  buck  who  swag- 
gered through  the  streets  glorying  in  his  prowess  as  a 
criminal. 

From  1743  to  1748  little  was  known  of  Fielding. 
Seemingly  he  was  financially  and  physically  in  ill 
health.  Even  before  middle  life  he  was  suffering  from 
the  results  of  overestimation  of  his  strength  to  endure 
riotous  excess.  In  1748  he  was  made  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace  for  Westminster,  and,  familiar  as  he  was  with 
all  forms  of  crime,  he  was  a  valuable  officer  and  a  power 
for  reform.  It  was  amidst  the  arduous  and  dangerous 
duties  of  such  a  work  that  he  finished  in  1749  that  mas- 
terpiece, Tom  Jones, 

Coleridge  has  declared,  in  his  Talle  Talks  that  (Edi- 
pus  Tyrannus,  The  Alchemist,  and  Tom  Jones  are  the 
three  most  perfect  plots  ever  invented.  Leisurely  as 
the  tale  appears,  innumerable  as  are  the  digressions,  the 

232 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

book  is  scarcely  matched  in  all  literature  in  its  inevita- 
ble leading  to  the  final  denouement.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  Fielding  always  surpassed  his  predecessors — 
Defoe  and  Eichardson,  for  instance — in  character  por- 
trayal; but  never  before  in  English  prose  had  been 
seen  such  complexity  or  intricacy  of  plot.  In  Joseph 
Andrews  Fielding  had  sometimes  sacrificed  the  charac- 
ters to  the  incidents ;  but  here  they  balance,  they  mingle, 
they  develop  out  of  each  other,  they  seem  thoroughly 
natural  and  in  unison.  The  incidents  seem  the  logical 
results  of  the  characters'  natures;  the  natures  of  the 
characters  are  made  evident  by  means  of  the  incidents. 
Fielding  is  the  first  English  writer  to  combine  in  a  con- 
vincing manner  every  characteristic  we  now  look  for  in 
the  novel. 

He  felt  that  he  was  producing  a  new  type  of  litera- 
ture. He  knew  not  what  name  to  give  it;  but  he  at- 
tempted consciously  to  create  what  he  called  a  *  Uprose 
epic"  and  declared  that  his  work  contained  every  es- 
sential of  the  true  epic  except  the  meter.  Years  later 
Lord  Byron  whole-heartedly  endorsed  his  view,  and 
dubbed  him  *Hhe  prose  Homer  of  human  nature."  The 
human  nature  described,  as  in  Joseph  Andrews,  is  again 
rather  coarse ;  but  the  same  excuse  may  again  be  urged ; 
and  moreover  his  own  words  may  be  repeated  in  his 
defense:  **The  vices  to  be  found  here  are  rather  the 
accidental  consequences  of  some  human  frailty  or  foible 
than  causes  habitually  existing  in  the  mind." 

The  plot  is  too  large  to  be  even  outlined  here.  Tom 
Jones,  supposed  to  be  a  foundling,  is  reared  in  the  home 
of  Squire  AUworthy,  is  plagued  by  a  young  hypocrite, 
Blifil,  is  in  love  with  Sophia  Western,  almost  loses  her 

233 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

by  the  many  adventures  his  passionate  blood  leads  him 
into,  is  at  length  proved  not  to  be  a  foundling,  and 
secures  Sophia.  As  Gosse  ^  says,  this  is  the  healthiest 
company  ever  devised  by  a  human  brain.  There  are 
fights  and  sprees  and  passionate  embraces  and  coarse 
talk  and  rowdyism  beyond  the  power  of  the  twentieth- 
century  refined  vocabulary.  As  in  Joseph  Andrews, 
Fielding  has  no  use  for  a  sneak  or  a  hypocrite;  but 
he  can  easily  forgive  the  sins  of  hot  youthful  blood. 
He  believes  thoroughly  in  the  old  Irish  adage :  '*  When- 
ever thou  seest  a  bare  pate,  for  the  love  of  God,  crack 
it!"  and  rich  red  British  blood  flows  by  the  gallon. 
Molly  Seagrim  appears  at  church  in  unusual  finery ;  of- 
fensive remarks  are  heard ;  a  quarrel  results,  and  lo !  a 
glorious  Anglo-Saxon  fight. 

*'As  a  vast  herd  of  cows  in  a  rich  farmer's  yard,  if, 
while  they  are  milked,  they  hear  their  calves  at  a  dis- 
tance, lamenting  the  robbery  which  is  then  committing, 
roar  and  bellow ;  so  roared  forth  the  Somersetshire  mob 
an  halloloo,  made  up  of  almost  as  many  squalls,  screams, 
and  other  different  sounds,  as  there  were  persons,  or 
indeed  passions,  among  them.  Some  were  inspired  by 
rage,  others  alarmed  by  fear,  and  others  had  nothing 
in  their  heads  but  the  love  of  fun;  but  chiefly  Envy, 
the  sister  of  Satan  and  his  constant  companion,  rushed 
among  the  crowd  and  blew  up  the  fury  of  the  women ; 
who  no  sooner  came  up  to  Molly  than  they  pelted  her 
with  dirt  and  rubbish. 

*' Molly,  having  endeavored  in  vaiu  to  make  a  hand- 
some retreat,  faced  about;  and  laying  hold  of  ragged 
Bess,  who  advanced  in  front  of  the  enemy,  she  at  one 

7  Eighteenth  Century  Literature,  p.  255. 

234 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

blow  felled  her  to  the  ground.  The  whole  army  of  the 
enemy  (though  near  a  hundred  in  number),  seeing  the 
fate  of  their  general,  gave  back  many  paces,  and  retired 
beyond  a  new-dug  grave;  for  the  church-yard  was  the 
field  of  battle,  where  there  was  to  be  a  funeral  that 
very  evening.  Molly  pursued  her  victory,  and  catch- 
ing up  a  skull  which  lay  on  the  side  of  the  grave,  dis- 
charged it  with  such  fury,  that  having  hit  a  tailor  on 
the  head,  the  two  skulls  sent  equally  forth  a  hollow 
sound  at  their  meeting,  and  the  tailor  took  presently 
measure  of  his  length  on  the  ground,  where  the  skulls 
lay  side  by  side,  and  it  was  doubtful  which  was  the 
more  valuable  of  the  two.  Molly,  then  taking  a  thigh- 
bone in  her  hand,  fell  in  among  the  flying  ranks,  and 
dealing  her  blows  with  great  liberality  on  either  side, 
overthrew  the  carcass  of  many  a  mighty  hero  and  hero- 
ine. Recount,  0  muse,  the  names  of  those  who  fell  on 
this  fatal  day.  First  Jemmy  Tweedle  felt  on  his  hinder 
head  the  direful  bone.  Him  the  pleasant  banks  of 
sweetly  winding  Stour  had  nourished,  where  he  first 
learnt  the  vocal  art,  with  which,  wandering  up  and 
down  at  wakes  and  fairs,  he  cheered  the  rural  nymphs 
and  swains,  when  upon  the  green  they  interweaved  the 
sprightly  dance;  while  he  himself  stood  fiddling  and 
jumping  to  his  own  music.  How  little  now  avails  his 
fiddle!  He  thumps  the  verdant  floor  with  his  carcass. 
Next  old  Echepole,  the  sow-gelder,  received  a  blow  in 
his  forehead  from  our  Amazonian  heroine,  and  imme- 
diately fell  to  the  ground.  He  was  a  swinging  fat  fel- 
low, and  fell  with  almost  as  much  noise  as  a  house. 
His  tobacco-box  dropt  at  the  same  time  from  his  pocket, 
which  Molly  took  up  as  lawful  spoil.     Then  Kate  of 

235 


ENGLISH  MOTION 

the  Mill  tumbled  unfortunately  over  a  tombstone,  which 
catching  hold  of  her  ungartered  stocking,  inverted  the 
order  of  nature,  and  gave  her  heels  the  superiority  to 
her  head.  Betty  Pippin,  with  young  Roger,  her  lover, 
fell  both  to  the  ground;  where,  0  Perverse  Fate!  she 
salutes  the  earth,  and  he  the  sky." 

If  the  English  world  thought  it  had  seen  superbly 
vivid  characterization  in  Joseph  Andrews,  it  had  rea- 
son to  disabuse  its  mind  when  Tom  Jones  appeared. 
Parson  Adams  is  a  charming  blending  of  traits ;  Parson 
Trulliber,  feeding  his  swine  instead  of  his  flock,  is  an 
admirable  piece  of  sordid  realism;  but  no  such  figures 
as  the  stubborn,  doggedly  obstinate  Squire  Western,  the 
amiable  Squire  Allworthy,  the  calculating  Blifil,  and 
that  full-blooded,  harum-scarum  hero,  Tom  Jones,  had 
ever  before  been  seen  in  English  prose. 

Concerning  the  character  of  Tom  Jones,  there  has 
been  much  diversity  of  opinion.  Thackeray  says  of 
him:  *'A  hero  with  a  flawed  reputation;  a  hero  spong- 
ing for  a  guinea ;  a  hero  who  can't  pay  his  landlady,  and 
is  obliged  to  let  his  honor  out  to  hire,  is  absurd,  and 
his  claim  to  heroic  rank  untenable.  I  protest  against  Mr. 
Thomas  Jones  holding  such  rank  at  all.  I  protest  against 
his  being  considered  a  more  than  ordinary  young  fel- 
low, ruddy-cheeked,  broad-shouldered,  and  fond  of  wine 
and  pleasure.  He  would  not  rob  a  church,  but  that  is 
all."  The  '* learned"  Miss  Carter,^  of  his  own  day,  had 
a  more  charitable  view :  *  *  He  is  no  doubt  an  imperfect, 
but  not  a  detestable  character,  with  all  that  honesty, 
good  nature  and  generosity."  It  is  indeed  a  triumph 
of  art   that  after   Tom's   numerous   shameful   fallings 

8  Carter  and  Talbot  Correspondence,  Ed.  Pennington. 

236 


FICTION  OF  THE  dBlGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

from  grace  we  feel  no  deep  disgust  at  his  winning  So- 
phia. Perhaps,  after  all,  in  spite  of  his  weakness  of 
will-power  in  the  strife  against  the  passions  that  would 
rise  in  his  healthy  frame,  the  largeness  of  his  heart  and 
the  true  generosity  of  his  nature,  together  with  the  im-  • 
positions  and  the  petty  tyranny  of  his  hypocrite  rival, 
Blifil,  are  the  causes  of  our  genuine  satisfaction  in  his 
final  triumph.  Forty  characters  appear  in  this  huge 
narrative;  it  is  beyond  our  purposes  to  attempt  a  de- 
scription of  each,  but  whether  a  country  squire  or  a^ 
philosophical  lounger,  a  rural  wench  or  a  town  **lady," 
all  live,  for  the  time  being,  as  truly  as  any  whom  we 
meet  to-day. 

In  the  midst  of  his  fame  Fielding  was  now  reaping 
the  bitter  fruits  of  his  misspent  youthful  energy.  As 
an  officer  of  the  law  he  was  attempting  to  lead  a  life  of 
great  activity,  while  at  the  same  time  suffering  in- 
tensely. The  effect  of  this  decline  is  shown  in  his  last 
novel,  Amelia,  appearing  in  1751.  It  is  almost  a  mel- 
ancholy piece  of  work;  the  shadow  of  death  seems  to 
have  been  on  the  man  as  he  wrote.  The  joy  of  animal 
activity  is  not  depicted  in  it;  but  the  sad  results  of  sin 
and  the  hideous  '* other  side"  of  vice  is  revealed  with 
a  hard,  grim  realism.  A  refined  woman  marries  a 
gambling  lieutenant.  They  sink  together  until  the  hus- 
band is'  confined  in  prison,  there  to  remain  in  shame 
and  remorse  until  that  gentle  angel,  Dr.  Harrison,  res- 
cues him  and  brings  them  both  back  to  their  fortune. 
Doubtless  as  Fielding  wrote  the  closing  lines  he  felt 
that  he  was  not  giving  a  true  picture  of  the  life  of  his 
day ;  otherwise  he  would  have  sent  the  husband  into  life 
banishment   in   some   prison   colony,    and   would   have 

237 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

driven  Amelia  forth  into  the  street  to  become  a  fallen 
wretch.  But  with  that  gentleness  so  characteristic  of 
him,  he  perverted,  for  mercy's  sake,  the  cold  dictates  of 
logic  and  art,  and  gave  the  couple  that  which  gives  the 
reader  much  more  satisfaction. 

In  1754  Fielding  felt  that  the  end  of  all,  for  him, 
was  near  at  hand.  That  year  he  went  to  Lisbon,  writ- 
ing as  he  journeyed,  his  Journal  of  the  Voyage,  which 
is  full  of  the  irrepressible  spirit  which  England  had 
learned  to  expect  of  him.  It  was  published  in  1755, 
after  the  fertile  mind  had  ceased  its  wonderfully  cre- 
ative work. 

Fielding's  contributions  to  the  evolution  of  fiction  are 
so  numerous  that  we  may  simply  enumerate  a  few  of 
them  without  going  into  a  discussion  of  each.  He  trans- 
ferred to  the  novel  several  of  the  devices  so  long  ef- 
fective on  the  ancient  and  modern  stage,  such  as  the 
secret  of  a  hero's  birth  and  the  dens  ex  machina.  He 
cast  aside  the  old  idea  used  by  Defoe  of  finding  records 
or  manuscripts  from  which  to  secure  information;  he 
refused  to  use  Eichardson's  scheme  of  having  letters 
from  and  to  the  characters  as  proof ;  he  simply  assumed 
that  omnipresence  now  granted  to  any  novelist  who 
desires  to  use  it.  He  dared  to  introduce  his  own  person- 
ality by  writing  whole  chapters  of  his  views  on  nature, 
literature,  art,  life,  what  not;  and  this  fact  of  person- 
ality, as  Sidney  Lanier  has  pointed  out,  is  an  extremely 
modern  trait,  a  characteristic  almost  totally  absent 
from  the  ancient  classic  literature.  He  introduced  local 
color  in  such  a  way  that  we  may  follow  his  characters 
from  town  to  town,  and  this  is  an  undeniable  aid  in 
making  these  figures  more  living  and  more  believable. 

238 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

He  built  a  plot  on  a  gigantic  scale  and  held  it  together 
with  a  masterly  grip.  He  set  up  for  fiction  a  code  of 
ethics  which  is  still  appreciated  and  believed — ^the  code 
that  innate  goodness  of  being  is  a  greater,  more  ad- 
mirable trait  in  a  hero  than  mere  goodness  of  doing. 
Lastly,  he  created  men  and  women  so  vital,  virile,  and 
mortal  that  they  seem  forevermore  not  like  creatures  of 
paper  and  type,  but  veritable  bodies  of  flesh.  He  had 
that  for  which  the  prophets  and  saints  of  old  prayed, 
not  mere  knowledge,  not  mere  information,  but  under- 
standing, and  that  abundantly. 

In  Fielding  the  eighteenth-century  novel  reached  its 
greatest  height ;  there  now  begins  a  steady  decline  until 
towards  the  close  of  the  century  when  we  shall  find 
innumerable  ambitious  but  incapable  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  a  literary  turn  struggling  in  a  veritable  slough 
of  confusion  and  bewilderment. 

SARAH  FIELDING 

This  horde  of  minor  novelists  began  to  appear  even 
in  Fielding's  own  day.  Perhaps  the  best  of  the  earlier 
ones  was  his  own  sister,  Sarah,  whose  David  Simple, 
published  in  1742,  shows  an  admiration  for  Richardson 
not  held  by  her  brother,  and  shows  also  a  certain  care, 
compactness,  and  neatness  of  plot,  and  some  keen  analysis 
of  character  of  which  even  the  great  Henry  might  not 
have  been  ashamed.  But  Sarah  Fielding  was  overshad- 
owed by  the  genius  and  the  immense  popularity  not  only 
of  Richardson  and  of  her  brother,  but  of  a  new  master, 
a  queer,  bitter  fellow  named  Tobias  Smollett  (1721- 
1771). . 


239 


ENGLISH  FICTION 


TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 


This  man  was  true  to  his  age.  His  ronghness, 
coarseness,  practical  joking,  brawls,  abductions,  plain 
filth  must  have  been  eminently  satisfying  to  eighteenth- 
century  readers.  He  came  of  an  aristocratic  family, 
was  cared  for  by  his  uncle,  a  knight,  in  a  beautiful  sec- 
tion of  Dumbartonshire,  and  with  a  good  education 
went  down  to  London  in  1739.  His  play.  The  Begicide, 
was  refused  by  Garrick,  and,  being  in  lack  of  money, 
he  became  a  surgeon's  mate  in  the  English  navy,  and 
for  some  time  led  the  rough  life  of  a  seaman.  He  lived 
in  Jamaica,  and  is  said  to  have  married  a  woman  of 
wealth;  but  in  1744  he  once  more  appeared  in  London 
streets  and  led  the  Bohemian  form  of  life  so  attractive 
to  him.  It  was  in  1748  that  his  first  novel,  Roderick 
Random,  gained  the  applause  of  London  literary  circles. 
It  was  plain  to  all  readers  that  this  was  a  book  bom  of 
experience,  something  almost  in  the  form  of  a  biography 
of  its  author.  In  fact,  the  Scotchman  in  the  story  goes 
through  many  of  the  experiences  that  came  to  Smollett 
himself.  It  was  a  tale  that  took  both  sea  and  land  as 
its  field,  and  naturally  British- readers  were  enthusiastic 
in  their  praise.  As  a  ship  surgeon  he  had  become  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  naval  affairs  and  sea-dogs;  as 
a  struggling  physician  in  London  he  had  learned  accu- 
rately the  eccentricities  of  the  city  middle  and  lower 
classes;  his  work  therefore  possessed  a  breadth  very 
novel  to  readers  of  his  day. 

Three  years  later  (1751)  Smollett  followed  his  first 
success  with  a  second.  Peregrine  Pickle,  a  book  better 
written  in  some  parts,  with  even  more  breadth,  sweepy 

240 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

and  humor,  and  certainly  fully  as  coarse  as  the  most 
licentious  dandy  of  the  eighteenth  century  could  have 
desired.  Two  years  later  came  Ferdinand  Count 
Fathom,  not  so  good  a  book,  because,  with  all  his  coarse- 
ness and  rough  characters,  its  author  endeavors  to  be 
romantic.  The  book  was  never  highly  popular  even  in 
his  own  time,  and  Smollett's  egotism  and  pride  were 
somewhat  dashed  by  what  he  considered  a  lack  of  pub- 
lic appreciation  of  the  '* artistic."  He  had  other 
causes,  moreover,  for  being  in  a  bad  humor  at  this  time. 
With  a  disposition  always  cynical,  biting  and  highly 
sarcastic,  he  had  offended  many  people  by  his  observa- 
tions, not  only  on  human  kind  in  general,  but  on  noted 
Englishmen  in  particular,  and  at  length,  being  arrested 
for  libel,  he  found  himself  in  jail  in  1761.  Here  he 
employed  his  large  leisure  on  a  new  novel,  Sir  Launcelot 
Greaves  (1762),  perhaps  a  better  book  than  Ferdinand, 
at  least  more  popular,  but  by  no  means  equal  to  the 
earlier  attempts. 

Somewhat  dismayed  by  the  results  of  his  venomous 
attacks  on  his  enemies,  and  rather  discouraged  over  his 
fall  in  popularity  as  a  fiction-writer,  he  now  turned  to 
history  writing,  produced  a  book  along  this  line  that 
gained  considerable  fame  and  sale,  but  nearly  ruined 
his  impaired  health  in  the  work.  He  traveled  in  France 
and  Italy  in  1766,  but  his  physical  frame  was  con- 
stantly tormented  by  the  hating  and  tempestuous  spirit 
within,  and,  discontented  with  all  he  saw,  he  came  back 
to  England  but  little  improved.  The  venom  in  the 
man  had  now  been  too  long  without  a  vent,  and  in  1769 
it  burst  forth  in  his  Adventures  of  an  Atom,  a  volume 
positively  disgusting  in  its  maliciousness  toward  all 
16  241 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

mankind.  The  man's  body  was  by  this  time  fearfully 
racked;  another  visit  to  the  Continent  wa^  demanded. 
At  Leghorn  he  came  under  the  care  of  a  physician  who 
strove  to  cure  his  spirit  as  well  as  his  body,  and  under 
this  influence  he  produced  his  last  and  his  least  bitter 
story,  The  Expedition  of  Humphrey  Clinker  (1771), 
published  shortly  after  his  death. 

As  in  Byron's  poetry,  there  is  a  touch  of  the  auto- 
biographical in  everything  Smollett  wrote.  And  like 
himself,  his  fiction  is  perverse,  rough,  now  wildly  hu- 
morous, now  madly  sullen.  Envy,  selfishness,  the  mean- 
est attributes  of  man  are  lingered  over.  He  delights  in 
a  ** savage  analysis  of  motive,''^  and  in  his  bitterness 
refuses  to  see  the  sweetness  and  the  charm  of  humanity. 
He  is  the  Swift  among  novelists.  His  joy  is  a  ma- 
licious exposition  of  malicious  traits. 

Roderick  Random,  Peregrine  Pickle  and  Humphrey 
Clinker  are  filled  with  scenes  and  adventures  that  seem 
to  be  natural  enough  in  themselves;  but  that  they  are 
always  logical  in  their  sequence  is  very  doubtful. 
Smollett  seems  to  have  a  habit  of  inserting  a  chapter 
because  it  is  funny,  and  not  because  it  aids  in  the 
progress  of  the  story;  while  his  undeniably  brilliant 
work  shows  so  much  hatred  that  not  infrequently 
his  speeches  and  acts  do  not  seem  consistent.  We 
must  not,  therefore,  look  to  Smollett  for  that  close- 
ness or  intricacy  of  plot  found  in  Richardson  and  Field- 
ing, but  rather  for  a  collection  of  adventures  that  hap- 
pened to  occur  to  some  one  person  or  group  of  persons. 

The  idea  of  justice  seems  to  be  entirely  absent  from 
this  author's  mental  equipment.     In  Roderick  Random 

» Cross:     Development  of  the  English  Novel,  p.  51. 

242 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

the  hero,  a  wild  scamp  who  does  every  deed  but  the  right 
one,  gains  as  his  reward  a  beautiful,  clean-souled  girl; 
in  the  second  novel,  Peregrine  Pickle,  the  same  thing 
happens.  Let  us  look  briefly  at  the  plot  of  this  second 
work.  Peregrine,  whose  mother  has  a  violent  aversion 
to  him — and  we  can  not  blame  her — is  adopted  by 
Commodore  Trunnion,  who,  with  one-legged  Jack 
Hatchway  and  Tom  Pipes,  is  occupying  a  ship-like 
home  named  the  Garrison.  The  place  has  a  ditch  and 
a  drawbridge;  Jack  and  Tom  must  take  their  turns  at 
being  *'on  the  watch";  all  sleep  in  hammocks;  time  is 
reckoned  by  ** bells"  instead  of  hours;  everything 
smacks  of  the  sea.  The  Commodore,  a  confirmed  bach- 
elor, has  a  profound  dread  of  being  captured  by  some 
woman, — and  well  he  may.  For  Peregrine's  Aunt 
Grizzle,  a  sour  female  with  a  cast  in  one  eye,  sets  her 
other  eye  on  the  old  sailor  as  a  legitimate  victim.  She 
is  aided  by  Hatchway  and  Pipes,  who  doubtless  are 
growing  tired  of  spending  so  many  ** bells"  on  the  look- 
out. The  Commodore,  however,  remains  totally  ob- 
livious to  any  such  appeals,  until  Pipes,  climbing  on 
the  roof  one  night,  lowers  through  the  chimney  a  bunch 
of  phosphorescent  whitings,  and  yells  through  the 
speaking  trumpet,  '* Trunnion!  Trunnion!  turn  out  and 
be  spliced,  or  lie  still  and  be  damned."  The  voice  of 
the  supernatural  is  not  to  be  scorned,  and  the  gruff  old 
victim  reluctantly  consents  to  the  marriage.  Unfortu- 
nately, on  the  road  to  the  church,  the  Commodore's  old 
fox-hunting  horse  runs  away  after  the  hounds,  and  the 
ceremony  is  postponed  to  a  later  day.  At  length,  how- 
ever, the  two  are  *' spliced"  and  return  to  the  Garrison. 
Here  they  go  to  bed  in  a  hammock,  which  soon  breaks 

243 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

down  under  the  double  burden,  and  both  hit  the  floor, 
much  to  Aunt  Grizzle's  disgust  and  anger.  The  next 
day  furniture  reforms  take  place  that  almost  break  the 
old  fellow's  heart. 

Peregrine  now  goes  off  to  school,  falls  in  love  with 
Amelia  Gauntlet,  and  sends  love  verses  to  her  by  Pipes, 
who  puts  them  in  his  shoe,  and  then  finding  them  worn 
to  pieces,  writes  some  of  his  own  as  substitutes.  The 
surprise  of  Miss  Amelia  at  the  poetic  tributes  resulting 
may  be  imagined;  she  and  Peregrine  are  no  longer  on 
speaking  terms.  Peregrine  goes  to  Oxford  and  finds 
later  an  opportunity  to  explain  all  to  Amelia.  His 
uncle  now  discovers  the  love  affair,  and  he  and  Peregrine 
are  separated  for  the  time  being.  ^*I  am  informed  as 
how  you  are  in  chase  of  a  painted  galley,  which  will 
decoy  you  upon  the  flats  of  destruction,  unless  you  keep 
a  better  look  out  and  a  surer  reckoning  than  you  have 
hitherto  done.''  Peregrine  and  Hatchway  now  quarrel 
over  this  matter  and  are  about  to  have  a  duel,  when 
Pipes  interferes;  later,  however.  Peregrine,  *^full  of 
bloody  execution,"  has  one  with  Amelia's  brother.  The 
young  rascal  now  goes  abroad,  comes  back  a  moral 
wreck,  vainly  tempts  the  virtue  of  Amelia,  and  is  called 
home  by  the  dying  Commodore.  *'Swab  the  spray 
from  your  bowsprit,"  cries  the  Commodore,  **and  coil 
up  your  spirits.  You  must  not  let  the  toplifts  of  your 
heart  give  way  because  you  see  me  ready  to  go  down  at 
these  years.  .  .  .  Here  has  been  a  doctor  that 
wanted  to  stow  me  chock-full  of  physic,  but  when  a 
man's  hour  is  come,  what  signifies  his  taking  his  de- 
parture with  a  'pothecary's  shop  in  his  hold?  Those 
fellows  come  alongside  of  dying  men,  like  the  messen- 

244 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

gers  of  the  Admiralty,  with  sailing  orders;  but  I  told 
him  as  how  I  could  slip  my  cable  without  his  direction 
or  assistance,  and  so  he  hauled  off  in  dudgeon." 

Possessed  now  of  a  good  portion  of  his  uncle's  money, 
Peregrine  returns  to  London,  drugs  Amelia,  and  takes 
her  to  private  lodgings.  She,  however,  unlike  Clarissa 
Harlowe,  does  not  die,  but  gives  him  a  scorching  rebuke. 
Here  the  story  is  interrupted  for  the  introduction  of  the 
Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality,  one  of  the  most  foully 
suggestive  narratives  in  any  literature.  Peregrine  hav- 
ing squandered  his  money,  now  tries  writing  for  a  live- 
lihood, is  put  into  the  Fleet  for  libel,  but  is  at  length 
released  by  securing  the  necessary  cash,  and  marries 
Amelia,  who,  now  an  heiress,  quickly  forgives  the  past. 
Peregrine's  father  dies  and  leaves  him  a  fortune.  The 
rascal  gains  all  the  material  rewards  of  this  life. 

All  this  is  mingled  with  riot,  coarse  joys,  satire, 
pictures  of  blackguards  and  scoundrels,  and  ferocious 
stabs  at  humanity.  "Well  may  Taine  say:  ''He  flings 
together  personages  the  most  revolting  with  the  most 
grotesque — a  Lieutenant  Lismahago,  half-roasted  by 
Red  Indians;  sea  wolves  who  pass  their  lives  in  shout- 
ing and  travestying  all  their  ideas  into  a  sea  jargon; 
old  maids  as  ugly  as  she-asses,  as  withered  as  skeletons, 
and  as  acrid  as  vinegar;  maniacs  steeped  in  pedantry, 
hypochondria,  misanthropy  and  silence.  .  .  .  The 
public  whom  he  addresses  is  on  a  level  with  his  energy 
and  roughness,  and  in  order  to  shake  such  nerves  a 
writer  cannot  strike  too  hard."^®  Peregrine  Pickle  is 
as  immoral  as  his  predecessor,  Roderick  Random,  and 
gains  his  ends  through  sheer  brute  force.     Yet  he  and 

^0  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  IV,  p.  323. 

245 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

all  the  other  characters  are  marvelously  vivid  and  living 
beings.  Lieutenant  Jack  Hatchway,  Pipes  and  Commo- 
dore Trunnion,  with  Tom  Bowling  and  Jack  Rattlin 
in  Roderick  Random,  are  the  forefathers  of  the  long  line 
of  sea  characters  so  frequently  met  with  in  English  and 
American  fiction,  and  fully  deserve  a  place  in  the  gal- 
lery of  the  immortals  in  literature.  In  spite  of  the 
disgust  which  we  sometimes  feel  in  reading,  and  in  spite, 
too,  of  the  seemingly  careless  throwing  together  of  not 
necessarily  connected  short  plots,  we  are  carried  on 
from  page  to  page  by  the  fine  mingling  of  humor,  se- 
riousness, satire,  and  activity. 

Humphrey  Clinker,  the  product  of  a  more  sane  and 
peaceful  spirit,  has  a  humor  refreshingly  free  from  the 
earlier  bitterness.  The  story  seems  badly  named,  as 
Humphry  is  a  Methodist  postilion  who  joins  the  Bram- 
bles family  in  their  wanderings,  and  is  never  at  any 
time  very  prominent.  He  and  other  Methodists  in  the 
book  are  introduced  as  objects  of  ridicule.  The  real 
figures  of  importance  are  Matthew  Brambles,  in  search 
of  health,  and  Miss  Tabitha  Brambles,  in  search  of  a 
husband.  There  is  an  ** aside"  love  plot  between  a 
niece,  Lydia,  and  a  mysterious  stranger ;  but  most  of  the 
story  centers  about  the  two  figures  first  mentioned,  and 
an  ugly  Scotchman,  Lismahago.  Miss  Tabitha  is  a 
character  never  to  be  forgotten.  ^^  She  is  tall,  raw-boned, 
awkward,  flat-chested  and  stooping;  her  complexion  is 
sallow  and  freckled ;  her  eyes  are  not  gray,  but  greenish 
like  those  of  a  cat,  and  generally  inflamed;  her  hair 
is  of  a  sandy  or  rather  dusty  hue;  her  forehead  low; 
her  nose  long,  sharp,  and  toward  the  extremity,  always 

246 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

red  in  cool  weather;  her  lips  skinny;  her  mouth  exten- 
sive; her  teeth  straggling  and  loose,  of  various  colors 
and  conformation;  and  her  long  neck  shriveled  into  a 
thousand  wrinkles/'  Her  efforts  to  enchant  the  blunt, 
hard-headed  Lismahago  form  some  of  the  most  ludicrous 
scenes  in  English  fiction.  Lismahago  had  been  married 
once  to  an  Indian  squaw ;  Miss  Tabitha's  curiosity  was 
aroused  by  his  hints  about  this  wild  damsel. 

''These  observations  served  only  to  inflame  her  de- 
sire of  knowing  the  particulars  about  which  she  had 
inquired;  and  with  all  his  evasion  he  could  not  help 
discovering  the  following  circumstances:  that  his 
princess  had  neither  shoes,  stockings,  shift,  nor  any 
kind  of  linen;  that  her  bridal  dress  consisted  of  a  pet- 
ticoat of  red  baize  and  a  fringed  blanket  fastened  about 
her  shoulders  with  a  copper  skewer;  but  of  ornaments 
she  had  great  plenty.  Her  hair  was  curiously  plaited 
and  interwoven  with  bobbins  of  human  bones;  one  eye- 
lid was  painted  green,  and  the  other  yellow;  the  cheeks 
were  blue,  the  lips  white,  the  teeth  red,  and  there  was  a 
black  list  drawn  down  the  middle  of  the  forehead  as  far 
as  the  tip  of  the  nose ;  a  couple  of  gaudy  parrot's  feath- 
ers were  stuck  through  the  divisions  of  the  nostrils; 
there  was  a  blue  stone  set  in  the  chin ;  her  earrings  con- 
sisted of  two  pieces  of  hickory,  of  the  size  and  shape  of 
drumsticks;  her  arms  and  legs  were  adorned  with 
bracelets  of  wampum;  her  breast  glittered  with  numer- 
ous strings  of  glass  beads ;  she  wore  a  curious  pouch  or 
pocket  of  woven  grass,  elegantly  painted  with  various 
colors;  about  her  neck  was  hung  the  fresh  scalp  of  a 
Mohawk  warrior,  whom  her  deceased  lover  had  lately 

247 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

slain  in  battle ;  and  finally,  she  was  anointed  from  head 
to  foot  with  bear's  grease,  which  sent  forth  a  most 
agreeable  odor.'' 

Much  of  the  humor  of  Smollett  would  doubtless  prove 
decidedly  distasteful  to  the  modem  French;  and  yet 
many  a  touch  of  it  came  to  him  through  their  language 
from  the  Spanish.  Both  he  and  Fielding  owed  much  to 
Cervantes  and  Le  Sage,  and  the  horse  play  and  prac- 
tical jokes  of  the  English  authors  have  a  plentiful  sup- 
ply of  parallels  in  their  Spanish  and  French  models. 
The  streaks  of  wild  exaggeration,  the  frequent  satire 
against  woman,  the  tendency  to  make  some  characters 
so  ridiculous  as  almost  to  change  them  to  caricatures 
are  elements  which  Smollett  received  from  the  Conti- 
nent, and  which  he  handed  on  down  to  as  late  a  writer 
as  Dickens.  Along  with  this  farcical  tendency  goes  a 
remarkable  power  in  describing  English  scenes,  and  in 
depicting  social  conditions,  prisons,  and  legal  tortures 
in  all  that  horror  which  the  non-imaginative  writings 
of  the  eighteenth  century  prove  so  sadly  true.  Not  the 
slightest  touch  of  brotherly  love  invades  Smollett's 
work.  Apparently  the  philanthropic  theories  of  the 
Wesleys  were  undreamed  of  in  his  nature,  and  few,  if 
any,  ideals  of  lofty  virtue  pass  before  us  as  we  read. 
And  yet  he  claims  a  moral  purpose  in  portraying  all 
this  coarse  evil.  Many,  he  declares,  *'are  deterred  from 
the  practice  of  vice  by  the  infamy  and  punishment  to 
which  it  is  liable  from  the  laws  and  regulations  of  man- 
kind." 

Richardson  and  Fielding  had  shown  the  limits,  pur- 
poses and  capabilities  of  the  novel;  it  remained  for 
Smollett  but  to  work  in  a  field  already  cultivated  and 

248 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

fertilized.  In  some  ways  lie  improved  the  field.  As 
we  have  seen,  he  introduced  a  new  type  in  his  sailors, 
and  a  new  scene  of  activity  in  his  sea  life;  he  painted 
the  picaresque  with  a  broadened  stroke;  he  used  satire 
and  hearty  humor  in  a  manner  not  seen  in  previous 
prose  fiction ;  he  emphasized,  if  he  did  not  indeed  intro- 
duce, the  difference  between  personal  view-points  of  the 
same  scene,  character,  or  theory,  and  thus  showed  more 
clearly  the  variations  in  human  nature;  and,  lastly,  he 
may  be  said  to  have  fathered  the  ** Gothic"  romance  of 
the  later  eighteenth  century  by  the  gloom  and  tragedy 
with  which  he  surrounded  some  of  his  ocean  scenes  and 
fights. 

LAURENCE   STERNE 

Eight  years  after  the  appearance  of  Peregrine  Pickle 
there  appeared  the  first  volume  of  what  is  perhaps  the 
oddest  and  most  eccentric  novel  in  all  the  world's  fic- 
tion— The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy. 
Year  after  year  the  volumes  appeared  until  the  ninth 
and  last  one  of  1767,  four  years  before  Smollett's  last 
and  best  story,  Humphrey  Clinker,  The  author  of  this 
queer  mixture  of  ridicule,  pathos,  forced  humor,  and 
delicate  sentiment,  Laurence  Sterne  (1713-1768),  was 
fully  as  queer  as  his  book.  Born  at  Clonmel,  Ireland, 
the  son  of  a  wandering  soldier,  and  one  of  a  large  num- 
ber of  weak  children  bom  during  the  hurried  camp  life, 
he  had,  as  a  child,  few  opportunities  to  show  that  subtle 
genius  which  he  undoubtedly  possessed.  He  roamed 
about  with  the  regiment  for  some  years;  but,  in  1731, 
his  father  having  been  killed  in  a  duel  in  Jamaica,  a 
relative  took  him  in  hand,  and  from  1732  to  1735  he 

249 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

"was  a  student  in  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.  At  school, 
however,  he  seemed  but  an  average  fellow.  In  1738  he 
became  a  country  parson,  married  a  woman  who  brought 
him  an  extra  '  ^  living, ' '  and  for  more  than  twenty  years 
he  preached,  dabbled  in  painting,  played  the  violin,  in- 
dulged in  a  deal  of  vice,  quarreled  with  his  wife  because 
of  his  intimacy  with  other  women,  and  told  shamefully 
coarse  jokes  at  rich  men's  tables.  A  hypocrite  in  every 
path  of  life  he  entered,  he  could  strike  off  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  a  noble  thought,  such  as:  *'God  tempers 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  or  a  nauseating  tale  such 
as  we  need  not  relate  in  this  work.  The  country 
squires  and  other  aristocrats  welcomed  him  to  their  ta- 
bles, not  because  he  added  honor  to  the  occasion,  but 
because  the  indecent  jokes  had  an  additional  piquancy 
when  heard  from  the  lips  of  a  clergyman. 

At  forty-six  Sterne  produced  the  first  volume  of  Tris- 
tram, and  published  it  at  York,  January  1,  1760,  and  im- 
mediately had  the  English  reading  public  at  his  feet. 
Now  followed  seven  years  of  hilarious  life,  the  only 
edifying  features  of  which  were  the  appearances  of  new 
volumes  of  Tristram's  curious  conglomeration.  Mean- 
while Sterne's  health  broke;  he  spent  a  year  on  the 
Continent,  but  was  back  in  England  in  1764.  After 
spending  about  a  year  at  home,  he  was  compelled  to  re- 
turn once  more  to  Southern  Europe,  where  he  remained 
during  a  portion  of  1765  and  1766.  Besides  finishing 
Tristram,  he  was  busy  writing  another  work,  a  two- 
volume  Sentimental  Journey  Through  France  and  Italy 
hy  Mr.  YoricJc  (1768).  Now,  however,  the  body  was  ex- 
hausted by  the  labors  of  both  fiction  and  vice.  He 
wrote  to  friends:    *'I  have  torn  my  whole  frame  into 

250 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY 

pieces  by  my  feelings. ' '  The  truth,  of  his  statement  was 
proved  by  his  sudden  death,  March  18,  1768.  His 
whole  life  had  been  out  of  the  path  of  custom,  and  even 
in  death  fate  would  not  allow  him  the  customary  rest; 
it  is  said  that  his  body  was  stolen  by  Cambridge  profes- 
sors of  medicine  and  dissected — perhaps  in  a  vain  effort 
to  locate  the  source  of  his  whimsical  wit. 

Whim  and  wit — ^these  are  the  elements  ever  present  in 
his  work.  Gosse^^  declares  that  his  humor  is  some- 
times worthy  of  Shakespeare.  He  plagiarizes  out- 
rageously; but  nevertheless  his  original  way  of  com- 
bining his  plagiarism,  his  fancy,  his  insinuating  wit,  his 
keen  observations  of  man,  and  his  piquant  manner  of 
putting  things,  place  him  among  the  greater  writers  of 
English  fiction.  We  can  point  out,  without  the  least  dif- 
ficulty, where  he  appropriates  this  part  from  Cervantes 
and  that  from  Rabelais,  this  from  Burton's  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,  and  that  from  Swift's  satirical  writings, 
much  of  the  plan  from  Arbuthnot's  Memoirs  of  Marti- 
nus  Scrihlerus  (1741),  and  ideas  and  jokes  from  a  score 
of  famous  wits  of  both  England  and  the  Continent. 
But  everything  he  took  he  permeated  with  his  own  per- 
sonality, and  each  pilfered  portion  seems  to  belong  as 
naturally  in  its  place  as  a  piece  in  a  patchwork  quilt. 

The  book  is  indeed  a  literary  patchwork  quilt. 
Everything  in  it  is  topsyturvy.  The  very  name  of  it  is 
misleading.  Tristram  Shandy  is  not  born  until  the 
third  volume,  and  does  not  do  much  after  he  is  bom. 
The  preface  also  appears  in  the  third  volume.  Sterne 
informs  us  that  he  is  going  to  leave  certain  chapters  to 
our  imagination,  and  after  he  has  carried  us  forward  a 

^"i- Eighteenth-Century  Literature,  p.  270. 

251 


.     ENGLISH  FICTION 

hundred  pages,  decides  to  write  the  chapter  himself, 
and  not  trust  to  our  imagination.  He  often  starts  a 
chapter,  suddenly  concludes  that  it  is  useless,  and  then 
passes  to  the  next.  It  is  the  most  curious  hodgepodge 
that  ever  assumed  the  name  of  fiction.  Eccentric  sub- 
jects are  discussed  in  eccentric  manners.  It  possesses 
a  mass  of  digressions,  commentaries,  trivial  sermonettes, 
and  grave  dissertations  on  worthless  subjects.  There  is 
hardly  a  direct  page  in  the  book.  Indeed  Sterne  shies 
at  directness  like  a  frisky  horse  that  disdains  the 
straight ^road.  Plotless,  we  might  call  the  whole  work; 
he  pushes  Smollett's  carelessness  in  form  to  chaos;  and 
yet  when  we  finish  the  work  we  realize  that  we  have 
been  in  an  atmosphere  of  reality,  and  have  associated 
with  characters  that  we  shall  remember  throughout  all 
our  days. 

In  this  witty  commentary  on  life,  this  series  of  hints, 
this  collection  of  odds  and  ends  where  really  nothing  of 
importance  happens,  it  is  the  characters  that  hold  our 
attention.  With  all  the  leisure  and  detail  that  the 
slowest  of  readers  could  desire,  the  thoughts,  conversa- 
tions, and  petty  acts  of  these  truly  living  beings  are  re- 
ported until  we  dare  not  doubt  the  existence  of  the 
strange  group.  It  is  a  book  of  fools.  Mr.  Shandy,  the 
meditative,  speculative  fool,  can  not  buy  his  boy  Tristram 
a  pair  of  trousers  or  shoes  until  he  looks  up  the  history 
of  these  articles  and  deeply  considers  what  the  past  ages 
deemed  the  best  forms.  Uncle  Toby  is  an  innocent  fool, 
who,  with  his  pipe  and  maps  of  the  latest  campaigns, 
sits  in  blissful  ignorance  of  his  danger,  until  the  Widow 
Wadman  captures  him.  See  how  finely  this  catastrophe 
in  Uncle  Toby's  life  is  portrayed.     Day  after  day  he 

252 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

has  been  working  with  Corporal  Trim  on  his  tiny  fort- 
ress in  the  open  field  laid  out  for  the  purpose;  he  has 
been  very  busy  and  very  happy;  but  Widow  Wadman, 
with  deep-laid  schemes,  has  built  a  summer  house  on  the 
border  that  she  may  view  the  activities.  A  bit  of  wind 
and  dust  aid  her  vastly. 

**  *I  am  half  distracted,  Captain  Shandy,'  said  Mrs. 
Wadman,  holding  up  her  cambric  handkerchief  to  her 
left  eye,  as  she  approached  the  door  of  my  uncle  Toby 's 
sentry-box, — *  a  mote,  or  sand,  or  something — I  know  not 
what — has  got  into  this  eye  of  mine;  do  look  into  it;  it 
is  not  in  the  white.' 

'*In  saying  which  Mrs.  Wadman  edged  herself  close 
in  beside  my  uncle  Toby,  and  squeezing  herself  down 
upon  the  corner  of  his  bench,  she  gave  him  an  opportu- 
nity of  doing  it  without  rising  up.  *Do  look  into  it,' 
said  she. 

^* Honest  soul!  thou  didst  look  into  it  with  as  much 
innocency  of  heart  as  ever  child  looked  into  a  rare  show 
box ;  and  't  were  as  much  a  sin  to  have  hurt  thee. 

*'If  a  man  will  be  peeping  of  his  own  accord  into 
things  of  that  nature,  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  it. 

**The  difficulty  was  to  get  my  uncle  Toby  to  look  at 
one  at  all.     'T  is  surmounted.     And, — 

''I  see  him  yonder  with  his  pipe  pendulous  in  his 
hand,  and  tne  ashes  falling  out  of  it,  looking — and — 
looking — then  rubbing  his  eyes  and  looking  again,  with 
twice  the  good  nature  that  ever  Galileo  looked  for  a  spot 
in  the  sun. 

**In  vain!  for,  by  all  the  powers  which  animate  the 
organ — Widow  Wadman 's  left  eye  shines  this  moment 

253 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

as  lucid  as  her  right;  there  is  neither  mote,  nor  sand, 
or  dust,  or  chaff,  or  speck,  or  particle  of  opaque  matter 
floating  in  it — there  is  nothing,  my  dear,  paternal  uncle ! 
but  one  lambent,  delicious  fire  furtively  shooting  out 
from  every  part  of  it,  in  all  directions,  into  thine. 

'*If  thou  lookest.  Uncle  Toby,  in  search  of  this  mote 
one  moment  longer  thou  art  undone. 

'^  'I  protest.  Madam,'  said  my  uncle  Toby,  ^I  can  see 
nothing  whatever  in  your  eye.' 

*'  ^It  is  not  in  the  white,'  said  Mrs.  Wadman.  My 
uncle  Toby  looked  with  might  and  main  into  the  pupil. 

*'It  was  not.  Madam,  a  rolling  eye — a  romping  or  a 
wanton  one;  nor  was  it  an  eye  sparkling,  petulant  or 
imperious,  of  high  claims  and  terrifying  exactions, 
which  would  have  curdled  at  once  that  milk  of  human 
nature  of  which  my  uncle  Toby  was  made  up;  but 
'twas  an  eye  full  of  gentle  salutations  and  soft  re- 
sponses, speaking  not  like  the  trumpet-stop  of  some 
ill-made  organ,  in  which  many  an  eye  I  talk  to  holds 
coarse  converse,  but  whispering,  soft,  like  the  last  low 
accents  of  an  expiring  saint.  *How  can  you  live  com- 
fortless. Captain  Shandy,  and  alone,  without  a  bosom 
to  lean  your  head  on  or  trust  your  cares  to?' 

**It  was  an  eye — 

**But  I  shall  be  in  love  with  it  myself  if  I  say  another 
word  about  it. 

**It  did  my  uncle  Toby's  business.     .     .     ." 

Now,  all  these  hints,  broken  sentences,  fragments  of 
narrative  may  seem  very  affected ;  and  so  they  are ;  but 
they  compose  some  of  the  most  artistic  and  difficult 

254 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

affectation  in  all  literature.  "We  leave  the  book  with 
accurate  images  of  certain  situations  and  of  the  figures 
taking  part,  and  yet  we  should  seek  in  vain  for  any- 
long  or  definite  descriptions  of  them.  Slight  delicate 
touches,  scattered  hither  and  thither  at  length,  how- 
ever, do  their  perfect  work,  and  we  close  the  novel 
repaid  for  all  the  blind  galleries  and  false  doors  we 
have  entered  and  all  the  side  steps  and  retracing  of 
steps  we  have  undergone. 

Broken  as  is  the  work,  each  little  portion  is  a  gem  of 
its  kind.  Whether  it  be  a  scene,  a  conversation,  or  aii^ 
episode,  it  is  a  bit  of  description  hard  to  excel.  Sterne 
was  a  man  who  was  constantly  striking  an  attitude,  and  ,> 
so  are  his  characters.  A  gesture  by  Uncle  Toby  or 
Corporal  Trim  often  conveys  more  meaning  than  a 
multitude  of  words.  But  amidst  all  this  affectedness 
and  this  posing,  there  is  many  a  touch  of  the  softer 
sentiments  not  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  Fielding  or 
Smollett.  Note  the  famous  description  of  Lefevre's 
death. 

**A  sick  brother-officer  should  have  the  best  quarters, 
Trim ;  and  if  we  had  him  with  us, — ^we  could  tend  and 
look  to  him. — Thou  art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself.  Trim ; 
— and  what  with  thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old  woman's, 
and  his  boy's,  and  mine  together,  we  might  recruit  him 
again  at  once,  and  set  him  upon  his  legs. 

** — In  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  added  my  uncle 
Toby,  smiling,  he  might  march. — He  will  never  march, 
an'  please  your  Honour,  in  this  world,  said  the  Corporal. 
— He  will  march,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  rising  up  from 
the  side  of  the  bed  with  one  shoe  off. — An'  please  your 
Honour,  said  the  Corporal,  he  will  never  march  but  to 

255 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

his  grave. — He  shall  march,  cried  my  uncle  Toby, 
marching  the  foot  which  had  a  shoe  on,  though  without 
advancing  an  inch, — he  shall  march  to  his  regiment. — 
He  cannot  stand  it,  said  the  Corporal. — He  shall  be 
supported,  said  my  nncle  Toby, — He'll  drop  at  last, 
said  the  Corporal,  and  what  will  become  of  his  boy? — 
He  shall  not  drop,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  firmly. — Ah, 
well-a-day ! — do  what  we  can  for  him,  said  Trim,  main- 
taining his  point, — the  poor  soul  will  die. — He  shall  not 
die,  hy  G — ,  cried  my  uncle  Toby. 

** — The  accusing  spirit,  which  flew  up  to  Heaven's 
chancery  with  the  oath,  blushed  as  he  gave  it  in; — and 
the  recording  angel,  as  he  wrote  it  down,  dropped  a 
tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it  out  forever. ' ' 

And  yet,  about  all  his  sentiment  or  sentimentality 
Sterne  has  a  subtle  touch  of  sarcasm.  He  loves  to  tell 
a  '^sad,  sad  story"  with  a  sly  twinkle  in  one  comer  of 
his  wicked  eyes.  Versed  in  this  world's  affairs,  he  had 
lost  all  delusions,  and  with  all  his  assumed  eccentricity 
in  writing,  he  stands  opposed  to  the  morbid  sentimental- 
ism  of  such  writers  as  Eichardson  and  Rousseau,  and 
indirectly — which  was  his  way — declares  against  the 
melancholy  or  overwise  cranks  met  with  in  daily  life. 

**RASSELAS" 

There  remained  during  the  middle  years  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  but  two  novels  showing  positive  genius, 
Johnson's  Basselas  (1759)  and  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  (1766).  The  facts  of  Johnson's  life  and  the 
eccentricities  of  his  nature  are  too  well  known  to  re- 
quire rehearsal  here.  Melancholy  by  nature  and  sud- 
denly plunged  into  genjiine  grief  by  the  death  of  his 

256 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

mother,  he  brought  together  in  his  Basselas  the  fruit 
of  many  years  of  observation  ^nd  experience.  The  old 
cry  of  the  preacher  in  Ecclesiastes  and  of  Omar  Khay- 
yam is  reechoed  in  this  solemn  utterance  of  the  modern 
centuries:  Vanity,  vanity,  all  is  vanity.  Written, 
though  it  was,  in  the  nights  of  two  weeks,  in  order  to 
pay  his  mother's  funeral  expenses,  it  shows  no  signs  of 
haste,  but  rolls  forth  its  deep-toned  message  with  melan- 
choly dignity  and  heavy  eloquence.  It  is  the  work  of 
a  mature  and  naturally  solid  mind  which  has  reached 
certain  definite  conclusions  concerning  this  earthly  ex- 
istence, and  which,  therefore,  speaks  with  authority 
when  it  begins  the  plaintive  story  with  those  pessimistic 
words:  '*Ye,  who  listen  with  credulity  to  the  whispers 
of  fancy,  and  pursue  with  eagerness  the  phantoms  of 
hope ;  who  expect  that  age  will  perform  the  promises  of 
youth,  and  that  the  deficiencies  of  the  present  day  will 
be  supplied  by  the  morrow;  attend  to  the  history  of 
Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia." 

A  young  prince  and  his  sister  are  kept  by  a 
careful  father  away  from  the  world  in  a  mountain  fast- 
ness known  as  Happy  Valley.  No  evil  enters  there; 
all  apparently  is  ideal;  and  yet  even  this  pleasantness 
becomes  monotonous.  Rasselas  with  his  sister  and  an 
old  philosopher,  Imlac,  at  length  escape  and  go  into  the 
world  to  find  that  happiness  which  they  firmly  believe 
is  there.  They  look  among  the  thoughtless  for  it;  it  is 
not  there.  They  look  among  the  wise  with  their  theories 
and  philosophies ;  but  lo,  it  is  not  there.  They  walk  in 
the  courts  and  the  cities;  it  is  not  there.  All,  all  is 
vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  Back  to  the  secluded 
valley  they  wander,  back  like  old  men  returning  to 
^'^  257 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

dreams  of  childhood,  there  to  find  at  least  some  sem- 
blance of  the  happiness  for  which  they  have  sought 
elsewhere  in  vain.  It  is  indeed  the  first  chapters  of 
Ecclesiastes  told  in  the  form  of  a  novel. 

Of  course  Easselas  lacks  many  of  the  qualities  and 
elements  we  expect  in  fiction.  There  is  practically  no 
clash  of  wills;  there  is  no  love-making;  there  are  no 
highly  exciting  adventures;  there  is  no  deep  psycho- 
logical investigation ;  but  there  is  indeed  a  great  ethical 
lesson  made  clear  by  the  experiences  of  a  little  group 
of  searchers  for  truth.  All  this,  it  should  be  noted,  is  in 
a  language  sonorous,  solemn,  beautiful  with  that  large 
beauty  so  peculiarly  Johnson's.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  a 
man  who  has  lived,  suffered,  and  conquered.  In  its 
solemnity,  its  true  pathos,  its  high  elevation  above  the 
petty  struggles  of  life,  it  seems  like  a  lonely  voice  cry- 
ing in  the  wilderness  of  eighteenth-century  earthiness 
and  materialism. 

** VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD" 

Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield  is  also  a  fruit  of  ex- 
perience. Its  author  '^who  wrote  like  an  angel  but 
talked  like  a  poor  Poll"  had  suffered  the  rebuffs  of 
fortune,  had  led  a  life  so  thoroughly  human  in  its 
blunders,  vanities,  humiliations  and  griefs  and  joys, 
had  become  so  versed  in  the  nature  of  humanity  that 
when  he  put  pen  to  paper  he  knew  only  too  well  this 
** sorry  scheme  of  things"  and  could  not  but  give  us  a 
picture  true,  beautiful,  touching.  His  genuine  kindness 
of  heart  made  all  men  love  him.  When  he  died  Burke 
burst  into  tears;  Reynolds,  who  had  refused  to  stop 
painting  on   Sunday,   laid   aside  his  brushes;   Garrick 

258 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

mourned  as  for  a  brother;  and  strangest  of  all,  the 
great  Johnson  could  not  talk!  This  same  innate  kind- 
ness made  him  try  to  reconstruct  the  ^' sorry  scheme" 
more  to  our  heart's  desire;  he  could  not  allow  the  inno- 
cent to  suffer  long;  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  twist  the  plot 
so  that  all  should  end  in  happiness  for  those  to  whom 
it  was  due. 

The  book  is  one  of  the  happiest  efforts  in  English 
literature,  and  yet  the  plot  is  one  of  the  most  ridicu- 
lously impossible  things  ever  conceived  in  that  litera- 
ture. We  are  asked  to  believe  that  a  character  is  com- 
pletely disguised  by  merely  changing  his  suit  of  clothes. 
We  are  told  that  a  nephew  is  practically  the  same  age 
as  his  uncle,  although  that  nephew  is  the  son  of  the 
uncle's  younger  brother;  the  whole  work  is  hastily  and 
loosely  slung  together.  But  the  spirit  of  it  all — the 
same  spirit  that  has  made  the  Deserted  Village  beloved 
for  generations — makes  full  amends  for  its  multitude 
of  petty  technical  defects.  Here,  too,  are  the  sweet- 
ness and  light,  the  sweet  reasonableness,  the  ideals  of 
the  great  Teacher  of  Galilee  that  will  some  day  make 
this  world  a  gentler  and  a  nobler  place.  As  Goldsmith 
points  out  in  his  preface,  there  is  another  universal  ele- 
ment in  this  story:  *^The  hero  of  this  piece  unites 
in  himself  the  three  greatest  characters  upon  earth: — 
he  is  a  priest,  a  husbandman,  and  the  father  of  a  family. 
He  is  drawn  as  ready  to  teach  and  ready  to  obey — as 
simple  in  affluence  and  majestic  in  adversity." 

There  is  a  refreshing  purity  in  this  narrative — ex- 
ceedingly refreshing  because  so  frequently  absent  from 
the  other  fiction  of  the  century.  True,  the  insertion  of 
the  visit  of  the  two  ''ladies"  from  London  is  a  slight 

259 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

surrender  to  the  coarse  tastes  of  the  day;  true,  there  is 
an  abduction  in  it ;  but  the  villain  finds  himself  tricked 
at  last  and  legally  married  to  the  woman  whom  he  had 
hoped  to  ruin.  These  things,  however,  are  but  incidents 
in  the  course  of  the  work;  through  it  all  are  the  pure 
air  of  the  country  roadside,  the  fragrance  of  flowers  and 
ripening  fruit,  a  charming  suggestion  of  sane  and 
strong  purity.  The  very  humor  of  the  story — ^totally 
unlike  the  humor  we  have  been  dealing  with — is  clean 
and  innocent.  The  selling  of  the  colt  for  a  gross  of 
green  spectacles  has  passed  into  the  gallery  of  classic 
incidents.  *'  *A  fig  for  the  silver  rims,'  said  my  wife 
in  a  passion:  *I  dare  swear  they  won't  sell  for  above 
half  the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken  silver,  five  shil- 
lings the  ounce.'  *You  need  be  under  no  uneasiness,' 
cried  I,  'about  selling  the  rims,  for  they  are  not  worth 
sixpence,  for  I  perceive  that  they  are  only  copper 
varnished  over.'  'What!'  cried  my  wife,  'not  silver, 
the  rims  not  silver!'  'No,'  cried  I,  'no  more  silver  than 
your  saucepan.'  'And  so,'  returned  she,  'we  have 
parted  with  the  colt,  and  have  only  got  a  gross  of  green 
spectacles  with  copper  rims  and  shagreen  cases!  A 
murrain  take  such  trumpery!  The  blockhead  has  been 
imposed  upon,  and  should  have  known  his  company  bet- 
ter.' 'There,  my  dear,'  cried  I,  'you  are  wrong;  he 
should  not  have  known  them  at  all.'  'Marry,  hang  the 
idiot,'  returned  she,  'to  bring  such  stuff!  If  I  had 
them,  I  would  throw  them  into  the  fire!'  'There, 
again,  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,'  cried  I,  'for  though  they 
are  copper,  we  will  keep  them  by  us,  as  copper  specta- 
cles, you  know,  are  better  than  nothing.'  "  How  totally 
different  from  the  rough  play  of  Fielding,  the  coarse 

260 


FICTION  OP  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

practical  jokes  of  Smollett,  and  the  suggestive  wit  of 
Sterne. 

The  characters  are  permanent  because  true  and  sat- 
isfying. Dr.  Primrose  may  make  mistakes;  but  his 
plain  decency  and  blunt  common  sense  endear  him  to 
all  who  hate  hypocrisy,  and  make  him  more  nearly  an 
ideal  man  than  any  of  the  wild  physical  beings  created 
by  Fielding  or  Smollett.  With  his  gentleness,  reason- 
ableness, his  pure  dignity,  he  does  indeed,  as  Scott  says, 
reconcile  us  to  human  nature.  There  is  many  a  touch 
of  sly  ridicule  in  the  work:  Mrs.  Primrose's  sudden 
efforts  to  marry  her  daughters  far  above  their  rank; 
the  endeavors  of  these  daughters  to  increase  their  nat- 
ural beauty  by  means  of  the  well-known  artificial  aids ; 
the  aristocratic  talk  of  the  fine  '^ladies"  just  arrived 
from  London ;  but,  on  the  whole,  there  is  a  spirit  of  easy 
forgiveness  that  must  have  sounded  strange  indeed  to 
eighteenth-century  ears.  Life,  in  spite  of  its  trials,  is 
portrayed  as  so  very  harmonious  in  this  book ;  the  good 
and  right  way  seems  so  reasonable;  surely,  the  work 
was  a  valuable  lesson  for  its  generation. 

We  know,  as  we  close  the  story,  that  blessings  are 
unnaturally  heaped  up  at  the  last ;  painfully  we  realize 
that  it  is  not  so  in  life;  grudgingly  we  admit  that  in 
so  far  it  deviates  from  truth,  and  therefore  from  art; 
but  then  we  know  that  it  has  charmed  its  readers  all 
these  years,  and  we  feel  confident  that  it  will  do  so  for 
centuries  to  come.  Why  is  this?  Simply  because 
Goldsmith  puts  before  us  in  living  form  an  ideal  of 
beauty.  What  is  beauty?  Is  it  not  your  conception 
in  anything  of  that  freedom  for  which  you  yourself  are 
longing?     The   Vicar   comes  before  us  free   from  the 

261 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

petty  envies,  the  malice,  the  back-biting,  revengeful  na- 
ture that  have  long  made  humanity  unlovely,  and  we 
love  him  and  consider  him  beautiful  for  his  very  free- 
dom. "Whatsoever  things  are  good,  whatsoever  things 
are  of  good  report — these  he  clings  to.  It  would  be 
folly  to  attempt  to  separate  the  ethical  and  purely  lit- 
erary in  a  discussion  of  this  masterpiece.  Put  before 
us  with  simple  honesty  and  frankness,  the  Vicar  is  effec- 
tive because  he  is  innately  good ;  though  we  may  smile  at 
him,  many  of  us  will  wish  that  we  were  more  like  him. 

PROBLEM-NOVELS 

So  far  our  novelists  have  taken  human  nature  and 
the  emotions  of  the  heart  as  their  theme.  Having  no 
special  theory  to  prove  concerning  this  or  that  *4sm," 
they  have  given  strong,  well-rounded  and  universal 
views  of  man,  his  ideals,  his  feelings,  and  his  motives. 
Now,  however,  a^  the  novel  began  to  degenerate,  its 
writers  brought  forward  their  little  special  theories  of 
life,  their  miserable  little  hobbies,  and  forthwith  rode 
these  (and  with  them  the  novel)  almost  to  destruction. 
This  man  has  a  theory  as  to  politics,  and  down  it  goes 
into  a  story;  another  has  a  belief  as  to  education;  it 
forthwith  becomes  a  novel;  another  thinks  that  the  su- 
pernatural is  the  greatest  cause  of  emotions,  and  he 
writes  a  '* Gothic"  romance.  Whenever  a  nation  be- 
gins to  use  its  fiction  as  a  means  of  expressing  its  petty 
hobbies,  that  moment  its  fiction  has  entered  the  road  to 
death. 

leland's  ''longsword" 

Charles  Johnstone's  contemptible  Adventures  of  a 
Guinea  (1760),  with  its  Smollett-like  hatred  pushed  to 

262 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

brutal,  disgusting  ferocity,  is  one  of  the  earliest  exam- 
ples of  this  use  of  the  novel  for  exploiting  an  opinion — 
in  short,  for  hobby-riding.  A  far  more  important  ex- 
ample is  Thomas  Leland's  Longsword,  Earl  of  Salis- 
bury (1762),  in  which  the  author,  seized  with  a  mania 
for  the  weird,  wrote  a  book  of  thrills,  and  thus  uncon- 
sciously helped  to  father  the  Gothic  romance,  and  as  a 
further  evolution,  the  historical  romance.  As  has  been 
pointed  out,  Smollett  makes  use  of  grim  terror  in  some 
of  his  ocean  scenes,  and  it  may  be  that  Leland  took  the 
hint  from  him,  and  to  some  extent  from  Defoe.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  the  story  contains  some  portions  as 
weirdly  romantic  as  one  could  desire.  As  a  character 
creeps  into  a  black  graveyard,  a  clock  in  the  tower  above 
him  strikes  twelve,  the  owl  gives  a  hideous  screech,  and 
the  man  throws  himself  down  over  a  new-made  grave. 
In  Longsword  we  find  also  some  of  those  elements  which 
we  have  long  expected  to  find  in  the  old-fashioned  his- 
torical novel — the  knights,  the  tournaments,  the  castles, 
in  short,  what  Scott  calls  the  **big  bow-wow  strain.'' 


Hard  upon  this  came  Walpole's  romantic  attempt, 
The  Castle  of  Otranto  (1764).  Supposed  to  be  a  tale  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  it  possesses  the  gloomy  castle 
with  hidden  doors,  dark  passages,  subterranean  corri- 
dors, and  deep  dungeons.  Manfred,  a  blood-thirsty 
tyrant,  holds  this  huge  pile  in  unlawful  possession;  a 
brave  monk  threatens  him  with  God's  vengeance;  a 
giant  rattles  his  great  frame  in  a  dark  upper  chamber; 
the  frightened  servants  move  in  terror  of  their  very 
breath;  as  Manfred's  son  enters  the  great  hall  for  his 

263 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

marriage,  a  mighty  helmet  suspended  from  the  ceiling 
falls  and  crushes  him.  It  is  a  fated  family,  like  that 
in  Poe's  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher.  Horace  Walpole 
was  brilliantly  equipped  for  the  work  of  writing  such  a 
story  of  old  days;  for  as  a  student  of  customs  he  pos- 
sessed much  accurate  knowledge  of  the  past.  But  in  his 
attempt  to  combine  the  traits  of  the  old  Norman-French 
romance  with  the  traits  of  modem  fiction,  he  undertook 
the  impossible;  logical  as  is  his  series  of  impossible  or 
supernatural  incidents,  one  would  have  to  be  indeed 
ultraromantic  to  be  in  sympathy  with  the  story,  and 
many  doubtless  would  find  it  a  source  of  humor  rather 
than  of  terror. 

The  realistic  manner  seemingly  can  not  be  applied  to 
the  impossible  romances  of  ancient  times.  The  story 
of  King  Arthur  moves  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  the  un- 
real that  we  willingly  take  the  impossible  for  granted; 
but  when,  instead  of  that  early  atmosphere,  we  are 
given  the  sophisticated  air  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
we  find  giants,  bleeding  statues,  ghosts,  and  talking 
skeletons  altogether  out  of  the  question.  In  other 
words,  we  can  not  reconcile  ourselves  to  a  modern  hu- 
man being's  living  among  supernatural  beings  and 
taking  part  in  supernatural  deeds.  We  can  allow  the 
Greene  Knight  to  pick  up  his  head  and  go  about  his 
business;  but  if  Smith  has  his  head  cut  off,  we  demand 
that  Smith  be  out  of  business  for  all  time. 

CLARA  REEVE 

In  1777  Clara  Reeve  followed  Walpole 's  model  in  her 
Champion  of  Virtue,  afterwards  called  The  Old  English 
Baron.     This  woman  saw  the  irreconcilable  elements  in 

264 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Walpole's  Otranto,  and  in  her  book  allowed  the  matter 
to  go  as  far  as  ghosts,  but  considered  them  as  enough 
of  the  supernatural — ^with  which  opinion  doubtless  we 
all  agree.  If,  however,  we  are  to  take  a  sip  of  the 
medicine,  we  might  as  well  take  the  whole  dose;  if  we 
must  meet  a  ghost,  why  not  see  the  magic  helmet,  hear 
the  giant  rattle  his  bones,  or  have  a  conversation  with 
a  statue  possessed  of  too  much  blood?  Moreover,  she 
does  not  prepare  us  for  the  supernatural  nearly  so  well 
as  does  Walpole.  Note  but  one  paragraph:  *'  *God 
defend  us!'  said  Edmund;  *but  I  verily  believe  that 
the  person  that  owned  this  armour  lies  buried  under 
us.'  Upon  this  a  dismal  hollow  groan  was  heard  as  if 
from  underneath.  A  solemn  silence  ensued,  and  marks 
of  fear  were  visible  upon  all  three ;  the  groan  was  thrice 
heard."  This  is  thrust  upon  us  without  any  merciful 
warning  whatever. 

In  spite,  however,  of  a  certain  lack  of  logic  in  her 
view-point,  Clara  Reeve  composed  a  well-constructed 
piece  of  fiction — a  story  that  shows  the  progress  of  weird 
romance  and  some  elements  of  the  historical  romance. 

In  the  course  of  these  novels  the  charm  of  the  super- 
natural and  purely  romantic  at  length  gave  way  to  the 
charm  of  the  supposedly  historical.  Perhaps  the  first 
of  these  historical  tales  is  Sophie  Lee's  Becess  (1783- 
1786),  in  which  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth  are  re- 
called and  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  intriguing  with  Lady 
Essex,  poisons  his  wife  with  a  dish  of  carp  which  she 
had  intended  for  him ;  and  in  which  various  other  inci- 
dents overlooked  by  authentic  historians  are  portrayed 
in  high  colors.  But  Sophie  Lee  was  some  years  ahead 
of  her  times,  and  historical  fiction  had  to  wait  until  the 

265 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

so-called  Gothic  romance  had  exhausted  itself  in  an 
effort  to  bring  back  the  weird  spirit  of  a  past  that  never 
existed. 

^Wathek" 

William  Beckford,  author  of  Vathek,  an  Arabian 
Tale  (1787),  in  an  effort  to  realize  this  past,  endeavored 
not  only  to  write  of  it,  but  also  to  live  in  it.  He  built 
in  Wiltshire  an  immense  pile  which  he  called  Fonthill 
Abbey,  and  here,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  among  romantic 
environments  made  to  order,  wrote  in  French  his 
strange  conglomeration  of  the  horrible  and  the  gro- 
tesque. An  English  schoolmaster,  Samuel  Henly,  trans- 
lated it  without  the  author's  knowledge,  and  it  soon 
had  a  wide  reading  in  England  as  well  as  in  France. 
Byron  declared  it  far  better  than  Rasselas.  It  is  the 
story  of  a  young  prince  who  indulges  in  sensuality,  and 
who  goes  with  astonishing  speed  along  the  primrose 
path  that  leads  to  the  everlasting  bonfire.  The  fate  to 
which  the  doomed  are  sentenced  is  at  least  quaint,  if 
not  quite  overwhelming.  The  Hall  of  Eblis  is  strewn 
with  gold-dust  and  saffron,  and  censors  burn  ambergrisi 
and  aloes,  and  here  the  lost,  with  hearts  wrapped  in 
flames,  wander  up  and  down  forever  and  forever. 
Beckford  was  capable  of  some  decidedly  vivid  descrip- 
tions; but  altogether  the  book  is  shallow,  and  has  not 
at  all  that  wisdom  which  experience  had  granted  the 
great  Doctor  Johnson. 

MRS.    RADCLIFFE 

Now  followed  Mrs.  Eadcliffe,  who,  between  1789  and 
1797  produced  such  weird  romances  as  The  Castles  of\ 

266 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Athlen  and  Dunbayne,  the  Romance  of  the  Forest  and 
The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  Omitting  the  ghosts  alto- 
gether, she  describes  in  a  *' ghostly"  manner  the  fears 
and  nervous  hallucinations  of  her  characters,  and  then 
explains  them  by  natural  causes.  The  creatures,  seem- 
ingly supernatural,  turn  out  to  be  merely  creations  of 
a  mind  in  nervous  distress,  or  sometimes  real  human 
beings.  For  instance,  the  heroine,  on  a  dark  stormy 
night,  may  find  a  musty  old  manuscript  in  a  chest  in 
the  gloomy  castle;  on  reading  it  she  discovers  that  a 
murder  has  been  committed  in  this  very  room;  she 
discovers  a  hidden  door  bolted  on  the  outside;  she  goes 
to  bed  in  nervous  dread;  far  in  the  night  she  hears 
the  bolt  slip  back;  she  sees  a  figure  approach  her  bed; 
she  is  frozen  with  fear;  it  is  undoubtedly  a  ghost;  the 
figure  gazes  for  a  brief  time,  and  suddenly  retires;  it 
is  later  discovered  to  be  a  real  man.  In  her  attention 
to  plot  and  environment  Mrs.  Radcliffe  allows  her  char- 
acters to  degenerate  into  mere  types;  but  the  atmos- 
phere is  produced  with  genuine  skill  and  power.  There 
is  a  blood-curdling  horror  about  it ;  we  are  compelled  to 
realize  the  agony  of  this  lonely  woman.  Few  English- 
speaking  writers  except  Poe  have  very  greatly  excelled 
the  author  in  this  genius  for  the  weird. 

Using  Sicily  or  Southern  France  for  her  setting,  and 
thus  easily  appealing  to  our  sense  of  the  romantic,  por- 
traying vividly  scenes  that  she  herself  never  saw,  mak- 
ing good  use  of  bewildering  corridors,  hidden  passages, 
haunted  churches,  and  similar  romantic  machinery,  Mrs. 
Radcliffe  produced  work  nothing  short  of  remarkable. 
But  when  we  discover  that  the  supposed  ghost  is  a  real 
man,  not  even  her  ability  can  prevent  an  anticlimax. 

267 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Yet  her  use  of  the  horrible  phases  and  forces  of  Nature, 
and  of  the  awe-inspiring,  her  careful  preparation  for  the 
introduction  of  the  supernatural,  make  great  amends  for 
such  a  defect.     Note  but  this  passage : 

''From  Beaujeu  the  road  had  constantly  ascended, 
conducting  the  travelers  into  the  higher  regions  of  the 
air,  where  immense  glaciers  exhibited  their  frozen  hor- 
rors, and  eternal  snow  whitened  the  summits  of  the 
mountains.  They  often  paused  to  contemplate  these 
stupendous  scenes,  and,  seated  on  some  wild  cliff,  where 
only  the  ilex  or  the  larch  could  flourish,  looked  over 
dark  forests  of  fir,  and  precipices  where  human  foot 
had  never  wandered,  into  the  glen — so  deep  that  the 
thunder  of  the  torrent  which  was  seen  to  foam  along 
the  bottom  was  scarcely  heard  to  murmur.  Over  these 
crags  rose  others  of  stupendous  height  and  fantastic 
shape;  some  shooting  into  cones;  others  impending  far 
over  their  base,  in  huge  masses  of  granite,  along  whose 
broken  ridges  was  often  lodged  a  weight  of  snow,  that, 
trembling  even  to  the  vibration  of  a  sound,  threatened 
to  bear  destruction  in  its  course  to  the  vale.  .  .  . 
The  deep  silence  of  these  solitudes  was  broken  only  at 
intervals  by  the  scream  of  the  vultures,  seen  cowering 
round  some  cliff  below,  or  by  the  cry  of  the  eagle  sailing 
high  in  the  air;  except  when  the  travelers  listened  to 
the  hollow  thunder  that  sometimes  muttered  at  their 
feet." 

It  would  be  beyond  the  scope  of  this  study  to  in- 
vestigate in  closer  detail  the  progress  of  Gothic  romance, 
and  what  some  critics  consider  its  offshoot,  the  histor- 
ical romance.  We  might  trace  the  first  through  Lewis's 
extravagant   Monk,    to    Mary    Shelley's    Frankenstein, 

268 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

and  the  second,  through  a  long  series  of  tales,  such  as 
Ann  Fuller's  Alan  Fitzoshorne  (1787)  and  The  Son 
of  Ethelwulf  (1789)  ;  James  "White's  Earl  Strong- 
bow  (1789),  Historic  Tales  (1790)  and  King  Richard 
(1791),  Clara  Eeeve's  Sir  Roger  de  Clarendon  (1793), 
Pownall's  Antiquarian  Romances  (1795),  and  William 
Godwin's  St.  Leon  (1799),  down  to  Jane  Porter's  Thad- 
deus  of  Warsaw  (1803).  There  is  a  popular  idea  that 
Scott  evolved  the  historical  romance  out  of  his  inner  con- 
sciousness; the  fact  is,  the  whole  method,  manner,  and 
purpose  had  been  made  clear  years  before  he  became  the 
incomparable  master  of  the  field. 

NOVELS  OP   PURPOSE 

These  forerunners  of  Scott  in  the  use  of  the  weird 
and  historical  in  romance  had  been  able  to  see  clearly  only 
one  of  the  sources  of  interest  that  might  be  found  in 
a  good  novel.  To  them  the  supernatural,  the  ghostly, 
or  the  superhuman  deed  of  ancient  characters  was  the 
element  to  be  emphasized  in  arousing  horror  or  an  at- 
mosphere of  the  heroic.  To  another  class  of  hobby- 
riding  fiction-writers  of  the  eighteenth  century  belonged! 
the  so-called  novelists  of  purpose.  Their  efforts  were 
generally  concentrated  on  two  problems:  how  man 
should  be  educated  and  trained,  and  how  man  should 
be  governed ;  and  generally  the  result  of  all  their  specu- 
lations was  the  *^back  to  nature"  scheme  so  frequently 
reappearing  in  the  history  of  humanity. 

^'fool  OF  quality" 

The  first  of  the  educational  or  pedagogical  novels  in 
English  seems  to  have  been  Henry  Brooke's  Fool  of 

269 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Quality  (1766-1770).  The  author  was  a  gentle,  lova- 
ble man,  one  whom  even  Pope  and  Swift  thoroughly 
liked  and  trusted.  Married  before  the  age  of  twenty- 
one,  in  the  course  of  his  married  life  father  of  twenty- 
two  children,  he  spent  an  existence  of  unending  struggle 
against  poverty,  and  died  in  a  remote  region  of  Ire- 
land attended  by  the  only  child  who  had  survived. 
Himself  denied  the  comforts  of  life,  he  filled  his  book 
with  a  dream  of  wealth  and  impossible  charity.  A  boy, 
Henry  Clinton,  the  future  Earl  of  Moreland,  is  carried 
off  by  a  benevolent  old  fellow,  his  uncle  in  disguise, 
and  the  description  of  the  manner  in  which  the  young- 
ster is  trained  fills  a  volume,  as  edited  by  Charles  King- 
sley,  of  four  hundred  and  twenty-seven  pages.  King- 
sley  declared  it  one  of  the  greatest  novels  of  the  world ; 
John  Wesley,  in  spite  of  his  belief  in  publishing  only 
religious  works,  had  it  reprinted  for  his  followers,  and 
said  it  was  a  volume  *Hhe  most  excellent  in  its  kind  that 
I  have  seen  either  in  the  English  or  any  other  language 
.  .  .  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  that  ever  was 
dreamed  in  the  world. ' ' 

All  this  seems  absurd  to  those  of  us  who  in  this 
modern  day  dare  to  look  into  the  book.  The  plot  is 
so  slight  as  to  bring  absolutely  no  interest  to  the  work; 
the  boy,  going  on  errands  of  mercy  to  hospitals,  asy- 
lums, slums,  and  similar  localities,  is  very  similar  to 
the  boy  we  have  met  in  the  old-fashioned  Sunday-school 
book ;  the  sight  of  his  bestowing  his  uncle 's  money  most 
liberally  on  various  institutions  is  rather  ridiculous  to 
a  thoughtful  reader.  The  moralizings  and  other  di- 
gressions are  altogether  too  obstrusive;  some  portions 
are  utterly  impossible.     Yet  Charles  Kingsley,  in  his 

270 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY 

enthusiasm,  maintains  that  it  contains  *'deep  and  grand 
ethics"  and  '* broad  and  genial  humanity."  These 
things  might  indeed  make  a  worthy  volume,  but  not 
by  any  means  a  readable  novel;  here  the  ethical  pur- 
pose is  so  direct  and  apparent  that  artistic  portrayal 
of  the  ethical  ideal  is  rendered  impossible. 

THOMAS   DAY 

Thirteen  years  after  the  last  volume  of  the  Fool  of 
Quality  had  been  issued,  Thomas  Day  published  an- 
other pedagogical  novel  in  his  Sanford  and  Merton 
(1783-1789).  This  work,  however,  was  intended  not 
only  for  parents,  but  for  the  children,  and  by  means 
of  short  tales  and  dialogues  endeavored  to  inspire  the 
little  ones  with  an  undying  enthusiasm  for  botany, 
geography,  sociology,  ethnology,  and  all  the  other 
*^ologies"  and  *4sms"  thrust  upon  the  helpless  young- 
sters in  our  own  day.  Day  might  be  called  the  literary 
father  of  the  new  woman.  His  heroine  was  not  of  the 
**clinging-vine"  type;  she  was  robust,  took  cold  plunges, 
and  every  morning  took  a  jaunt  of  ten  or  twelve  miles 
in  sunshine  or  rain.  She  was  acquainted,  not  only  with 
domestic  science,  but  literature,  mathematics,  and  **  na- 
ture study. ' '  It  was  a  direct  slap  in  the  face  for  Eous- 
seau's  ideal  woman,  who  was  altogether  too  tender  and 
feminine. 

ELIZABETH   INCHBALD 

This  business  of  writing  a  pedagogical  treatise  under 
the  guise  of  fiction  was  continued  in  Elizabeth  Inch- 
bald's  Simple  Story  (1791).  Mrs.  Inchbald  was  a 
woman  of  remarkable  strength,  versatility,  and  beauty, 

271 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and  doubtless  the  story  of  her  own  life  would  have 
been  more  interesting  than  any  piece  of  fiction  she 
wrote.  Having  run  away  from  home  to  enter  upon  a 
stage  career,  she  became  a  popular  London  actress,  mar- 
ried a  worthless  fellow,  and  for  several  years  did  the 
merest  drudgery  of  the  household.  Her  beauty  at- 
tracted many  men  who  hoped  to  gain  her  for  a  mis- 
tress; but  their  efforts  were  in  vain.  ^*Last  Thurs- 
day," we  find  her  writing,  '*I  finished  scouring  my 
bed-chamber  while  a  coach  with  a  coronet  and  two  foot- 
men waited  at  the  door  to  take  me  an  airing."  Yet, 
in  spite  of  her  slavish  labor  and  her  courtships,  she 
found  time  to  produce  so  much  literature  that  in  her 
later  years  she  possessed  a  comfortable  income.  Her 
Simple  Story  (1791)  and  her  Nature  and  Art  (1796) 
made  her  name  known  in  every  cultured  home  of  Eng- 
land in  her  day.  Sometimes  incorrect  in  grammar  and 
rhetoric,  and  possessing  plots  with  a  will  of  their 
own,  her  novels  have  at  times  a  genuine  pathetic 
power,  and  also,  like  the  work  of  Miss  Edgeworth,  the 
admirable  virtue  of  causing  us  to  forget  the  author  in 
our  interest  in  her  book. 

The  Simple  Story  is  directed  against  that  strange  in- 
stitution, the  young  ladies'  boarding  school,  and  Mrs. 
Inchbald  spares  no  pains  to  make  clear  the  ignorance, 
indolence,  and  vanity  fostered  in  such  places.  The  hero- 
ine, Miss  Milner,  with  such  training,  is  left  to  the  care 
of  a  Catholic  priest  and  falls  in  love  with  him.  He 
becomes  Earl  of  Elmwood,  is  therefore  released  from 
his  church  vows,  and  of  course  marries  the  girl.  But, 
with  a  weakness  of  character  brought  about  by  flabby 
training  in  childhood;  she  becomes  unfaithful  and  dies 

272 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

miserably.  Her  child  is  sent  to  one  of  the  father's 
country  houses,  and  is  never  seen  or  spoken  of  by  him. 
At  length,  however,  she  is  carried  off  by  a  libertine,  and 
the  father,  suddenly  awakening  to  his  duty,  rescues 
her,  shows  his  paternal  love,  and  marries  her  to  his 
nephew.  All  this,  be  it  remembered,  happened  because 
a  girl  was  sent  to  a  fake  educational  institution. 

Mrs.  Inchbald  belongs  also  to  the  other  group — the 
novelists  of  protest,  or  those  who  endeavor  to  show 
how  men  should  be  governed.  Her  Nature  and  Art, 
like  Godwin's  Cale})  Williams,  endeavors  to  show  the 
cruelty  of  the  modern  social  condition,  and  to  portray 
a  potentially  good  man  who  is  made  a  victim  of  its  un- 
just demands.  This  fiction  revolution  against  society 
had  begun  some  years  before,  and  was  but  one  of  the 
signs  of  the  romantic  movement  now  sweeping  on  with 
great  power.  Men  were  now  demanding  more  rights  as 
individuals;  democracy  was  in  the  air;  America  had 
struggled  into  political  freedom;  the  French  were  mak- 
ing a  similar  effort ;  a  civic  upheaval  seemed  to  pass  over 
the  world.  The  cry  of  equality  and  fraternity  became 
quite  the  fashion. 

ROBERT   BAGE 

Robert  Bage,  in  such  a  novel  as  Barham  Downs 
(1788),  was  one  of  the  first  of  these  novelists  of  pro- 
test. In  this  work  we  have  a  defense  of  a  woman  who 
has  been  ruined  by  a  libertine  lord.  In  his  Hermsprong 
(1796)  we  find  a  picture  of  an  earthly  paradise  among 
the  American  Indians,  who  spend  very  agreeable  and 
innocent  lives  playing  and  singing  and  sleeping  in  the 
sun.  In  these  works,  as  well  as  his  James  Wallace, 
18  273 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  Fair  Syrian,  and  Mount  Henneth,  Bage  presents 
us  with  a  bountiful  supply  of  political  theory,  but 
precious  little  plot;  while  the  upper  classes  are  shown 
as  vicious  degenerates,  and  the  poor  man  as  the  right- 
ful king. 

THOMAS   HOLCROFT 

Four  years  after  the  appearance  of  Barham  Downs, 
Thomas  Holcroft,  another  of  the  London  revolutionary 
novelists,  displayed  his  radicalism  in  Anna  St.  Ives 
(1792).  Here  the  red  flag  of  anarchy  waves  defiantly. 
**  Everything, "  he  declares  *'in  which  government  in- 
terferes is  spoiled."  Property  rights  were  an  especial 
abomination  to  Holcroft.  ^*You  maintain  that  what 
you  possess  is  your  own.  I  affirm  that  it  is  the  property 
of  him  who  wants  it  most."  Having  protested  against 
permanent  marriages,  ranks  in  the  social  structure,  and 
many  other  orthodox  views,  he  paints  a  beautiful  pic- 
ture of  the  times  to  come  when  there  shall  be  no  per- 
sonal property,  when  only  ''agreements"  between  man 
and  woman  shall  exist,  when  labor  shall  be  universal, 
but  very  brief,  and  when  there  will  be  no  preachers, 
lawyers,  judges,  and  officers  of  the  law;  for  none  will 
be  necessary.  Holcroft 's  Alwyn,  Hugh  Trevor,  and 
Bryan  Perdue  are  of  the  same  character,  and  doubtless 
brought  joy  to  the  enthusiastic  group  of  free  thinkers 
writing  so  zealously  in  their  London  home. 

CHARLOTTE   SMITH 

Charlotte  Smith,  another  member  of  the  group,  ap- 
pears to  have  been  the  most  prolific  novelist  of  the  eight- 
eenth century.     For  years  she  practically  supported  her 

274 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

father's  large  family  by  her  pen.  Following  out  the 
free-love  theory  of  her  revolutionary  associates  she  de- 
scribed in  her  Desmond  (1792)  a  young  fellow's  pas- 
sion for  another  man's  wife,  a  passion,  however,  which 
was  not  wild  and  unregulated,  but  exceedingly  well 
trained  and  generous.  Luckily  the  husband  becomes 
a  sot  and  is  killed,  and  the  widow,  having  very  de- 
cently waited  a  year,  marries  her  lover.  The  author 
followed  this  work  with  what  is  probably  the  best  known 
of  her  stories,  The  Old  Manor  House  (1793),  where 
once  more,  as  in  Bage's  Hermsprong,  we  are  shown  an 
earthly  paradise,  the  chief  characteristics  of  which  seem 
to  be  exceedingly  inexpensive  costumes,  freedom  from  con- 
ventionalities and  law,  and  a  sort  of  year-round  picnic 
with  plenty  of  dancing  and  singing. 

''CALEB    WILLIAMS'' 

Of  all  this  group  William  Godwin  is  the  most  famous 
and  the  most  influential  writer.  Before  undertaking 
fiction  he  had  written  much,  but  without  pronounced 
originality,  upon  sociological  themes.  Malthus  had  at- 
tacked and  completely  demolished  his  theories,  and  by 
those  who  were  not  particularly  enthusiastic  towards 
socialism,  he  was  looked  upon  as  rather  shallow.  We 
are  not  surprised  to  find,  therefore,  a  conspicuous  lack 
of  originality  in  his  novels.  His  plots  lack  the  con- 
nected effect  of  a  good  narrative;  his  theories  become 
altogether  too  prominent ;  he  rides  his  hobby  until  it  is 
jaded. 

Magazine  editors  sometimes  declare  that  every  man 
has  at  least  one  good  story  in  him.  Caleb  Williams 
(1794)    may  have  been   Godwin's  one  story.     As   the 

275 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

first  detective  story  in  the  English  language,  and  pos- 
sessing much  of  the  character  of  the  Gothic  romance,  it 
had  great  possibilities  for  becoming  a  genuine  master- 
piece; but  the  suggestive  plot  is  rendered  weak  by  the 
author's  lack  of  concentrative  artistic  power.  It  is  a 
story  written  to  show  how  man  becomes  the  destroyer 
of  man ;  how  society  with  its  tyrannical  conventionalities 
makes  men  its  victims,  and  transforms  them  to  villains  or 
moral  and  mental  wrecks.  Falkland,  a  man  of  high 
family,  guarding  his  honor  from  stain,  stabs  his  enemy, 
Tyrrel,  at  night.  Two  innocent  men  are  executed  for 
the  crime;  Falkland,  more  from  fear  of  disgrace  than 
of  death,  remains  silent.  Henceforth  his  every  thought 
is  given  to  guarding  the  secret.  Caleb  Williams,  his 
secretary,  discovers  it,  however,  but  promises  never  to 
reveal  it.  But  when  Caleb  wishes  to  change  positions, 
Falkland  objects,  and  has  him  arrested  and  impris- 
oned for  robbery.  The  young  martyr  escapes,  but  is 
pursued  by  Falkland's  servants,  and,  thus  driven  to 
despair,  reveals  his  employer's  crime,  and  compels 
Falkland  to  confess.  Thus  the  present  social  structure, 
thinks  Godwin,  makes  fools  or  knaves  of  us  all. 

The  story  was  a  great  success  in  the  closing  years  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  Byron's  threat  to  his  wife 
that  he  would  treat  her  as  Falkland  had  treated  Caleb 
"Williams,  revived  the  interest  in  the  work  in  the  earlier 
nineteenth  century.  But  to  us  of  to-day  there  appear  so 
many  weak  points  in  the  tale  that  in  not  a  few  pages 
it  seems  utterly  ridiculous.  No  good  cause  is  given  for 
Tyrrel's  hatred;  Caleb  finds  out  the  secret  with  en- 
tirely too  much  ease ;  we  consider  Caleb  a  fool  for  being 
persecuted  to  such  an  extent.     Moreover,  the  characters 

276 


FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

are  not  vividly  living  personalities;  we  care  little 
whether  they  flourish  or  suffer.  And  yet  Hazlitt  de- 
clares that  Caleb  and  Godwin's  other  famous  novel 
8t,  Leon  (1799)  are  '*two  of  the  most  splendid  and  im- 
pressive works  of  the  imagination"  composed  in  their 
time.  But  Hazlitt 's  critical  judgment  was  biased  by 
his  enthusiasm  for  Godwin's  sociological  views.  God- 
win and  Mary  Wollstonecraft  were  devout  prophets  of 
a  future  golden  age ;  Godwin  longing  for  and  foreseeing 
a  period  when  men  would  be  so  perfect  that  anarchy, 
or  absolute  lack  of  law,  would  be  possible,  and  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  seeing  a  day  when  women  would  be  free 
from  all  shackles.  Both  may  have  been  equally  in  ear- 
nest ;  but  neither  one  was  quite  fitted  to  write  a  master- 
piece of  fiction. 

Thus  the  hobby-riding  continued  into  the  new  cen- 
tury. It  showed  indeed  one  very  commendable  trait  al- 
most absent  from  English  society  in  the  days  when  Rich- 
ardson was  writing  Pamela:  men  and  women  had  at  last 
come  to  desire  some  ideal  state  far  removed  from  the 
mere  passions  of  the  flesh  and  the  power  gained  by 
brute  force.  But  the  novel  was  not,  and  perhaps  is 
not  yet  the  instrument  for  such  theories,  admirable  as 
they  may  be;  and  with  the  coming  of  Jane  Porter  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott  the  use  of  fiction  for  such  a  purpose 
waned  to  a  great  extent.  But,  in  another  direction 
these  lofty  desires  found  a  far  nobler  expression;  Shel- 
ley's Revolt  of  Islam,  Alastor,  and  Prometheus  Unbound, 
and  the  fervid  eloquence  of  Byron  uttered  with  far 
more  grandeur  what  these  novelists  had  falteringly 
stammered  forth. 


277 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

HENRY   MACKENZIE 

Fiction  portraying  manners  and  customs  had  now 
long  been  popular  in  England.  Mrs.  Manley  and  Mrs. 
Behn  had  written  just  such  books,  of  the  foul  sort,  how- 
ever, near  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century;  Defoe 
had  appealed  to  the  same  curiosity  in  his  Plague  Year; 
Addison  and  Steele  had  made  much  of  it  in  the  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  Papers;  Eichardson  had  shown  man- 
ners incidentally  in  Pamela;  Tom  Jones  is  a  treasury  for 
eighteenth-century  rural  manners ;  Laurence  Sterne  had 
shown,  not  only  the  manners,  but  the  mannerisms  of 
certain  eighteenth-century  individuals.  After  these 
greater  figures  had  passed  away,  their  imitators  lingered 
long.  Some,  such  as  Griffith,  the  author  of  Koran 
(1770),  were  exceedingly  uninspired  and  dull;  some, 
like  Henry  Mackenzie,  author  of  the  most  sentimental 
novel  in  the  language.  The  Man  of  Feeling  (1771) ,  caused 
their  characters  to  do  more  posing  than  even  those  of 
Sterne.  The  hero  in  the  last-named  work  is  full  of 
nerves,  is  always  on  the  verge  of  collapsing,  and  is 
liable  to  die  at  any  moment.  He  is  so  shy  that  he  can 
not  confess  his  love  until  he  is  bedfast,  and  when  his 
lady  accepts  him,  he  dies  of  the  shock.  The  plot  is  nil; 
it  is  but  fragments  of  a  manuscript  which  had  been  used 
by  a  sportsman  preacher  for  gun- wadding;  its  tattered 
condition  is  very  suggestive  of  the  hero's  nervous  sys- 
tem. The  story  has,  however,  some  excellent  traits;  it 
is  refined,  it  perceives  the  good  as  vividly  as  the  bad; 
Mackenzie,  like  Addison,  prefers  to  teach  by  ideals. 
Then,  too,  the  influence  of  environment  on  a  sensitive 
man  is  rather  subtly  traced. 

278 


FICTION  OP  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

This  novel,  as  well  as  Mackenzie's  next  one,  The  Man 
of  the  World,  is  related  to  the  revolutionary  fiction 
in  that  it  is  a  protest  against  certain  traits  of  society. 
In  the  second  novel  Sir  Thomas  Sindall,  a  resolute  ras- 
cal, labors  harder  to  seduce  a  woman  than  most  men 
would  to  gain  a  fortune.  Apparently  he  has  very  little 
real  passion;  but  his  whole  pleasure  lies  in  making  the 
conquest.  He  teaches  the  girl's  brother  to  gamble  in 
order  that  he  may  ruin  him  and  thus  get  him  out  of 
the  way.  The  brother  at  length  robs  another  gambler 
and  is  transported  for  twelve  years.  The  sister  is 
drugged  and  ruined  by  the  young  aristocrat;  her  child 
is  given  to  a  nurse  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  drowned. 
Harriet,  the  sister,  dies,  and  her  father  soon  follows  her. 
Years  later  the  libertine  brings  back  from  the  Conti- 
nent a  young  lady  committed  to  his  care,  and  is  about 
to  puin  her  when  the  nurse  informs  him  that  it  is  his 
own  child.  The  brother  returns  from  his  penal  exile  and 
kills  the  libertine.  The  plot  may  be  repulsive ;  but  there 
is  no  coarseness  in  it.  Vice  is  condemned  and  no  scene 
is  written  for  the  sake  of  mere  rudeness.  There  is  real 
pathos  in  some  pages  of  this  as  well  as  in  Mackenzie's 
third  story,  Julia  de  Bouhigne,  which,  according  to  Scott, 
is  one  of  **the  most  heart-wringing  histories." 

Some  of  these  novels  of  manners  were  maliciously 
written  to  ridicule  the  eccentricities  of  certain  classes. 
Graves's  Spiritual  Quixote  is  a  bitter  fling  at  the  Metho- 
dists— a  miserable  imitation  of  Don  Quixote,  in  which 
the  *'hero,"  Geoffrey  Wildgoose,  reads  such  Puritanical 
books  as  Crumbs  of  Comfort,  Honeycombs  for  the  Elect, 
and  Spiritual  Eyesalve  and  Cordials  for  Saints,  and  then 
goes  forth  to  convert  the  sinful  British.     Other  novel- 

279 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ists  of  this  type,  however,  like  Eichard  Cumberland,  the 
dramatist,  author  of  Henry  (1795),  simply  tried  to  make 
a  readjustment  of  sueh  boisterous  characters  as  Tom 
Jones  to  the  milder,  more  moral  conditions  of  the  closing 
years  of  the  century,  and  thus  drew  contrasts  which  are 
useful  in  our  efforts  to  estimate  the  changes  that  had 
taken ,  place. 

MISS  BURNEY 

Of  all  these  novelists  of  manners,  doubtless  two 
women,  Fanny  Burney  and  Miss  Edge  worth,  were  the 
most  successful.  Fanny  Burney  was  the  daughter  of  a 
Norfolk  organist  and  historian  of  music,  to  whose  home 
came  Johnson,  the  Thrales,  Garrick,  and  other  promi- 
nent people  of  her  day.  She  had  a  talent  for  recording 
her  impressions  of  men  and  women,  and  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen  collected  these  thoughts  and  pictures 
into  a  novel  entitled  Caroline  Evelyn.  She  was  con- 
stantly hampered,  however,  by  a  jealous  step-mother, 
and  went  through  the  distressing  ordeal  of  seeing  the 
woman  burn  the  manuscript  of  this  youthful  story. 
The  chief  points  of  the  tale  were  still  in  her  memory, 
and  in  later  days  she  began  her  first  published  novel, 
Evelina,  or  the  History  of  a  Young  Lady's  Entrance  inta 
the  World  (1778),  where  the  destroyed  manuscript  had 
left  off.  This  novel  was  published  anonymously;  even 
the  publishers  could  not  for  some  time  discover  the  au- 
thor ;  but  when  the  secret  was  revealed  the  young  author- 
ess sprang  into  great  fame. 

Macaulay  states  that  Miss  Burney  wrote  admirably 
clean  books,  and  so  she  did — for  the  eighteenth  century. 
But  oaths,  rough  and  vulgar  talk,  horse  play  and  con- 

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FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

versations  of  a  rather  familiar  character  are  by  no  means 
absent.  The  book,  dealing  with  the  ideals,  ideas,  emo- 
tions, and  difficulties  that  come  to  a  refined,  ambitious 
girl  just  entering  womanhood,  tells  the  story  of  Evelina, 
who,  having  been  reared  in  a  fashionable  family,  is  ma- 
liciously harassed  by  her  low  relatives,  and  is  almost  pre- 
vented from  marrying  a  nobleman  because  of  th^ir  con- 
stant obtrusiveness.  Thus  we  gain  one  of  the  best 
descriptions  of  eighteenth-century  society  to  be  found  in 
fiction ;  for  we  get  views  of  every  plane  of  the  social  life 
from  the  highest  to  the  humblest.  Moreover,  the  story 
is  interesting  as  a  story.  The  plot  moves  smoothly  and 
is  a  woven  fabric,  and  not  a  patchwork.  Every  leading 
character  in  it  is  a  real  personality,  and  is  delineated 
with  a  woman's  eye  for  details  and  persistent  concen- 
tration. 

In  both  Evelina  and  CmKa(  1782)  Miss  Bumey  shows 
the  new  moral  and  social  conditions  that  have  entered. 
The  old  bullies  and  reckless  libertines  are  no  longer 
plentiful;  but  now  appears  in  their  place  a  *^ smart  set" 
afflicted  with  ennui,  superciliousness,  and  empty-head- 
edness.  Men  do  not  shine  in  these  books;  a  woman  is 
writing  for  other  women,  and,  in  inspecting  closely  the 
male  sex,  fails  to  find  in  it  anything  prominently  celes- 
tial or  divine.  The  author  is  at  times  caustic;  she 
takes  delight  in  showing  the  glossy  varnish  of  low  po- 
liteness; with  a  touch  of  Thackeray's  cynicism  she  pic- 
tures the  vanities  of  the  upper  set  with  a  rather  merciless 
hand. 

Miss  Bumey 's  third  novel,  Camilla,  is  scarcely  ever 
glanced  at  in  our  day;  her  Diary  and  Letters,  written 
after  she  became  Madame  d'Arblay  in  1793,  have  almost 

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suffered  the  same  fate;  but  her  first  two  novels  have 
had  an  undoubted  influence  upon  such  writers  as  Jane 
Austen,  Benjamin  Disraeli,  Bulwer-Lytton,  and,  pos- 
sibly, Scott. 

MARIA  EDGEWORTH 

Maria  Edgeworth  was  another  novelist  influenced  by 
the  Burney  fiction.  Her  stories  of  both  English  and 
Irish  life  are  vivid  pieces  of  descriptions  of  manners, 
customs,  and  national  characteristics,  and  cause  her  to 
be  considered  something  of  a  prophecy  of  Scott  and 
Samuel  Lover.  Having  lived  for  some  time  in  the  heart 
of  Ireland,  she  was  able  to  look  upon  England  from  the 
Irishman's  standpoint,  and  in  such  tales  as  The  Ab- 
sentee, found  in  her  Fashionable  Tales,  or  her  novel, 
Castle  Backrent,  we  have  the  peasant  life  of  Erin  shown 
with  a  sympathy  found  nowhere  in  English  literature 
before  her  day.  Castle  Backrent  shows  the  wit,  the  hu- 
mor, the  sentiment,  the  pathos,  the  sturdiness  of  the 
Irishman  in  his  own  castle.  The  Irish  in  alien  lands 
had  been  used  before  this  for  purposes  of  ridicule ;  but 
never  before  had  the  Irish  knight,  brave  with  Celtic 
rashness  and  Irish  whisky,  been  made  an  object  of  ad- 
miration or  sympathetic  laughter.  Here  was  humor 
created  by  truth.  As  we  read  we  cease  to  wonder  why 
Waverley  has  sometimes  been  called,  **the  Castle  Kack- 
rent  of  Scotland.'' 

Miss  Edgeworth's  Belinda  (1801)  has  to  do,  for  the 
most  part,  with  the  familiar  aristocratic  life  of  London, 
and,  while  the  descriptions  are  not  immoral,  they  cer- 
tainly are  suggestive.  There  are  good-for-nothing  hus- 
bands and  wives  who   go   out  for  eighteenth-century 

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FICTION  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

*'joy  rides"  and  who  flirt  outrageously.  There  are 
reconciliations  or  violent  separations — the  latter  accom- 
panied by  the  thump  of  the  trunk  being  hauled  down- 
stairs by  the  porter,  while  we  expect  the  departing  wife 
to  shout  in  sternly  dramatic  tones,  **  Farewell — for- 
ever!" Miss  Edgeworth  has  a  didactic  purpose  in 
thrusting  a  young  lady  from  the  rural  districts  into 
such  a  circle.  If  her  education  has  been  correct — that 
is,  not  obtained  at  a  boarding  school — she  will  live  an 
untainted  life,  and  at  length  achieve  victory  by  captur- 
ing a  husband ;  otherwise  she  will  become  a  flirt  and  sink 
into  vice. 

With  all  this,  be  it  remembered,  is  a  positive  genius 
for  description.  Miss  Edgeworth 's  influence  can  be 
traced  in  the  works  of  such  writers  as  Scott,  Charles 
Eeade,  Samuel  Lover,  and,  to  some  extent,  with  Miss 
Burney,  in  those  masterly  pictures  of  society — ^the 
stories  of  Jane  Austen. 


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CHAPTER  VII 

Nineteenth- Century  Fiction 

social  and  literary  conditions 

The  many  tokens  of  an  industrial,  economic,  religious, 
and  intellectual  awakening  coming  with  the  nineteenth 
century  are  too  well  known  to  need  a  fresh  enumera- 
tion in  this  study.  The  formerly  impossible  became  the 
modem  commonplace;  the  miraculous  ceased  to  be  won- 
derful; the  dreams  of  medieval  romances  became  the 
matter-of-fact  inventions  of  modern  genius.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  any  thousand  years  of  the  world's 
history,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the  Renaissance 
period,  equaled  this  one  century  in  marvelous  changes. 
A  new  enthusiasm  seemed  to  enter  the  heart  of  hu- 
manity; a  wider  belief,  a  more  fervent  zeal,  a  nobler 
conception  of  man  and  his  God.  Science  and  Democ- 
racy compelled  social  and  religious  changes  that  caused 
the  world  to  progress  by  leaps  and  bounds.  The  na- 
tions came  to  know  one  another  as  never  before;  the 
comforts  of  life  reached  the  masses  in  a  manner  never 
seen  in  previous  eras;  the  luxuries  of  the  past  became 
the  necessities  of  the  day. 

But  with  these  advances  appeared  many  dangerous 
tendencies.  Science  shook  the  very  foundations  of 
creeds,  and  compelled  them  to  rebuild  or  fall  in  ruins. 
The  broadening  of  educational  advantages  granted  more 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

thought  to  the  masses,  and  the  result  was  a  demand 
for  rights  that  shook  the  social  structure  of  the  nations. 
The  invention  of  machinery,  while  making  food,  cloth- 
ing, and  numerous  necessities  much  more  plentiful, 
made  different  classes  of  laborers  far  more  dependent 
upon  one  another,  and  the  sufferings  of  the  one  class 
affected  all  others.  The  inevitable  result  was  a  fervent 
recognition  of  the  brotherhood  existing  among  workers 
and  a  realization  of  their  vast  power  in  the  affairs  of  the 
world.  Never,  therefore,  has  man  in  any  other  age  seen 
such  tremendous  labor  agitations,  such  startling  social 
upheavals,  such  dangerous  abruptness  of  change  as  in 
the  nineteenth  century. 

The  fiction,  the  essay,  the  poetry  of  the  century,  of 
course,  reflected  these  momentous  facts.  In  the  early 
days  of  the  period  poetry  was  the  medium  of  expression, 
and  the  poets  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  revolution  seldom 
excelled  in  any  literature  of  any  other  day.  Toward  the 
middle  of  the  century  the  essay  and  the  novel  seem  to 
have  rivaled  each  other  in  expressing  the  desires  of 
vexed  humanity ;  while  in  the  later  years  of  the  century 
the  novel  far  surpassed  the  poem  and  the  essay  in  bring- 
ing home  to  the  people  the  vital  problems  of  humanity. 

Of  course,  under  such  strenuous  conditions,  fiction 
could  not  remain  purely  romantic.  The  picture  of  ac- 
tual, modern-day  life  was  demanded;  the  sufferings, 
longings,  and  ambitions  of  the  under  classes  cried  for 
expression;  the  pretensions  and  wrongs  of  social  dis 
tinctions  had  to  be  exposed.  It  was  a  challenge  to  the 
realist,  and  he  answered  it.  True,  one  of  the  first  writ- 
ers of  the  century,  and  perhaps  the  most  famous  of 
them  all,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  was  a  romanticist;  but  on 

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ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  other  hand  it  is  significant  that  the  very  first  nov- 
elist of  fame  in  the  century,  Jane  Austen,  was  a  realist 
pure  and  simple.  In  her  footsteps  came  a  host  of  pho- 
tographic observers,  some  of  whom  laid  bare  the  social 
body  with  cold  impersonality,  and  others  with  bitterness 
and  anguish. 

JANE  AUSTEN 

It  requires  genuine  genius  to  make  the  commonplace 
interesting.  Jane  Austen  (1775-1817),  possessing  just 
such  genius,  did  more;  she  showed  the  superlative  im- 
portance of  the  commonplace.  We  all  have  heard  Scott's 
hearty  praise  of  her  work:  **The  big  bow-wow  strain 
I  can  do  myself  like  any  now  going;  but  the  exquisite 
touch  which  renders  ordinary,  commonplace  things  and 
characters  interesting,  from  the  truth  of  the  description 
and  the  sentiment,  is  denied  to  me.''  This  is  a  true 
criticism.  Hers  is  the  calm,  attentive,  delicate  work  of 
a  diamond  cutter.  With  keen  photographic  observation 
she  put  before  the  English  people  their  own  undeniably 
*^ average"  middle  classes  with  all  their  adoration  for 
the  conventional,  their  primness,  their  divine  belief  in 
blue  blood,  their  veneration  for  tradition.  No  violent 
upheavals  enter  into  these  pictures  of  rural  life; 
scarcely  ever  is  there  any  height  of  passion;  the  plots 
progress  with  a  quietness  eminently  befitting  the  quiet 
souls  that  move  so  primly  through  them.  This  is  in- 
deed the  beginning  of  nineteenth-century  English  real- 
ism. 

Jane  Austen's  father  was  a  clergyman  in  Southern 
England,  and  her  view  of  the  world  scarcely  ever  went 
beyond  the  narrow  confines  of  that  section.     She  knew 

286 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

little  of  the  larger  movements  and  wilder  excitements 
of  the  life  of  city  or  Continent;  she  herself  was  so 
modest  and  retiring  as  to  object  to  having  her  name 
on  the  title  pages  of  her  books ;  the  greed  for  gain  was  so 
utterly  absent  from  her  nature  that  she  was  satisfied 
with  exceedingly  small  payments;  altogether  extreme- 
ness in  anything — except  modesty — seems  to  have  been 
disgusting  to  her.  Perhaps,  after  all,  her  greatest  mes- 
sage to  the  nineteenth  century  is  the  message  of  com- 
mon sense.  That  she  belongs  to  the  century  at  all  is  due 
to  her  lack  of  that  very  impulsiveness  and  haste  which 
was  so  characteristic  of  the  period;  for  her  books, 
written  years  before  their  publication,  belong,  properly, 
to  the  period  closing  with  1800,  Pride  and  Prejudice, 
published  in  1813,  was  written  probably  in  1796 ;  Sense 
and  Sensibility,  appearing  in  1811,  was  written  in  1797 ; 
Northanger  Ahhey,  printed  in  1817,  was  written  as 
early  as  1798.  But  we  must  date  a  novel's  influence 
from  the  day  of  its  appearance  in  type,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  Jane  Austen's  work  belongs  distinctly  to  the 
nineteenth  century. 

The  novelists  of  the  century  may  be  pretty  clearly 
divided  into  romanticists  and  realists.  Scott  undoubt- 
edly fathered  the  former,  and  Jane  Austen  ''mothered" 
the  latter.  Her  Northanger  Abbey  is  a  mild  protest, 
almost  in  the  form  of  a  burlesque,  against  the  romantic 
fiction  of  her  young  days — ^the  fiction  of  the  Gothic  type. 
Catherine  Morland,  the  heroine,  is  simply  an  average 
girl  who,  after  reading  many  weird  accounts  of  ghostly, 
romantic  castles,  goes  on  a  visit  to  Northanger  Abbey, 
which,  to  her  disappointment,  she  finds  a  very  pleasant 
and  convenient  home.     There  is  a  delicate,  subtle,  and 

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ENGLISH  FICTION 

quiet  irony  in  such  a  story — an  irony  that  is  present  in 
almost  every  page  of  Jane  Austen 's  work.  She  may  have 
felt  as  keenly  as  Charles  Dickens;  but  restraint  was 
bred  in  her  blood,  and  both  his  broad,  bitter  portrayals 
and  Scott's  huge  sympathy  were  foreign  to  her  well- 
schooled  nature. 

Sense  and  Sensibility  is  just  as  quietly  ironical.  Of 
the  two  sisters  dealt  with  in  this  story,  one  is  thoroughly 
sane  and  guided  by  sensible  reflections;  the  other 
fondles  pain  and  misery,  and  possesses  all  that  **  roman- 
tic temperament"  so  characteristic  of  Gothic  heroines. 
And  lo!  Jane  Austen  thoroughly  cures  her  by  causing 
her  to  be  jilted  and  then  marries  her  off  to  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  her  father.  Casting  aside  the  hysterics 
of  the  later  eighteenth-century  novelists,  abjuring  the 
lengthy  moralizing  of  Kichardson,  despising  the  open 
coarseness  of  Smollett  and  the  dirty  suggestiveness  of 
Sterne,  this  author,  telling  of  nothing  wonderful,  and 
describing  people  that  might  be  seen  along  any  byway, 
became,  nevertheless,  a  social  critic  of  such  astuteness 
that  her  equals  in  the  succeeding  hundred  years  have 
been  but  rarely  found. 

Of  course  intensity  of  action  is  not  to  be  expected; 
indeed  to  many  readers  intensity  of  interest  is  lacking. 
To  those,  however,  who  read  between  the  lines  there  is 
revealed  a  story  of  the  inner  life  told  by  means  of  the 
outer  manners.  Here  are  people  tyrannized  by  respect- 
ability. They  have  the  happy  faculty  of  having  nothing 
to  do.  With  some  little  money  and  some  quantity  of 
thin  *  *  blue  blood, ' '  they  dare  not  undertake  the  original, 
but  spend  their  days  in  drinking  weak  tea,  going  to 
church,  and  sewing  for  the  poor,  whom,  fortunately,  they 

288 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

have  with  them  always.  Scarcely  ever  do  they  deviate 
into  crime  and  misery;  when  perchance  they  do,  their 
villainy  is  quickly  covered  over  and  silenced  lest  a 
stain  be  placed  upon  the  ^'respectability"  of  the  family 
name.  Certain  British  middle-class  ideals  are  upheld 
with  quiet  but  persistent  reverence:  a  woman  ought  to 
marry  a  man  with  an  income ;  nobody  should  let  a  hobby 
run  away  with  him ;  the  upper  classes  should  not  become 
so  lazy  as  to  neglect  their  estates;  train  the  young  for 
a  certain  rank,  and  they  will  be  happy  in  it;  let  every 
man  or  woman  attend  to  his  or  her  own  business. 

With  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  with  an  almost  perfect 
technique,  with  a  smooth  and  never  turbulent  art,  these 
lessons  are  impressed — but  never  pressed — upon  the 
reader.  Some  of  Scott's  novels  bear  a  resemblance  to 
the  huge  tragedies  of  Shakespeare;  Jane  Austen's 
stories  of  social  manners  easily  lend  themselves  to  a 
comparison  with  some  of  the  lighter  comedies  of  the 
great  master.  This  woman  pioneer  in  realism  may 
bring  a  couple  together,  create  misunderstandings  be- 
tween them,  arouse  in  them  a  positive  dislike  for  each 
other,  and  then,  at  the  proper  moment,  bring  them  to- 
gether again  for  the  disillusioning,  the  gradual  destruc- 
tion of  prejudice,  and  the  growth  of  mutual  understand- 
ing, admiration,  and  love.  Such  a  course  of  events 
requires  for  adequate  exposition  a  genius  for  analysis 
knd  introspection.  It  is  doubtful  whether  any  other 
English  novelist  before  her  day,  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  Richardson,  equaled  her  in  such  genius.  To 
some  readers  it  all  may  seem  like  describing  an  anthill 
with  laborious  minuteness ;  it  may  seem,  too,  that  all  the 
poetry  and  romance  of  life  are  brushed  aside  in  such 
19  289 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

a  process ;  this  sticking  so  closely  to  the  common  rounds 
of  daily  life  may  Seem  at  times  positively  earthy.  More 
than  traces  of  these  taints  may  be  found  in  the  work  of 
Jane  Austen.  Her  dry,  caustic  irony  oftentimes  con- 
ceals what  might  have  been  romance.  She  does  not 
often  touch  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful.  She  does 
shut  out  much  of  heaven  with  a  little  earth.  But,  then, 
art,  if  it  desires,  has  a  perfect  right  to  show  the  truth, 
the  unvarnished  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  and 
this  right  Jane  Austen  has  chosen  to  assume. 

There  is  a  certain  inevitableness  about  much  of  her 
fiction.  Indeed  we  can  almost  discern  a  fixed  formula. 
If  A  meets  B  under  certain  conditions  A  and  B  will  ap- 
parently not  agree;  but  if  A  and  B  meet  after  certain 
changes  A  and  B  will  agree  and  fall  in  love.  Miss 
Austen  manipulates  the  environments,  and  the  charac- 
ters do  the  rest.  After  all,  how  vivid  these  characters 
become,  and  with  how  few  descriptive  touches!  They 
drink  tea  and  play  cards  and  go  to  church  and  meet  at 
receptions  and  talk — talk  a  great  deal — and  in  a  short 
time  we  come  to  know  them  intimately.  They  are  not 
pushed  upon  us;  they  grow  gradually  into  our  ken. 
Scott,  Dickens,  and  even  George  Eliot  often  awkwardly 
shove  their  new  figures  into  our  company ;  Jane  Austen 
comes  much  closer  to  the  French  conception  of  allowing 
these  beings  to  grow  before  us  and  show  themselves 
through  themselves. 

In  her  later  works,  Mansfield  Park  (1814),  Emma 
(1816),  and  Persuasion  (1818),  we  find  a  deeper  tone, 
more  moralizing  and  reflections  on  the  mysteries  of  life, 
more  noting  of  the  effect  of  scenery,  more  introductions 
of  outside  characters  brought  forward  simply  for  the 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

sake  of  making  the  picture  more  lifelike.  In  short,  her 
view  of  life  was  slowly  broadening ;  her  inbred  restraint 
was  breaking  down.  But  had  she  lived  a  hundred  years, 
and  had  she  written  scores  of  novels,  she  could  not  have 
set  herself  free  from  that  early  training,  modesty,  aris- 
tocratic reserve,  and  slightly  condescending  cynicism. 

As  has  been  intimated,  conversation  is  a  most  con- 
venient vehicle  for  her  plots.  Every  conversation 
throws  some  new  ray  of  light  on  a  character  or  a  situ- 
ation, and  almost  without  our  notice,  affairs  move  right 
along.  Her  style  exhibits  the  sort  of  skill  expected  of 
such  a  woman.  Word  economy — a  sort  of  economy  un- 
known to  eighteenth-century  novelists — gives  her  sen- 
tences a  precision  and  a  snap  not  to  be  found  in  Scott. 
Again,  unlike  Richardson,  Fielding,  Scott,  and  Dickens, 
she  refuses  to  be  tempted  aside  for  long  by  any  call  to 
preach,  philosophize,  or  grow  sentimental  over  scenery 
or  old-time  customs.  She  is  as  much  afraid  of  the  vio- 
lently pathetic  as  of  the  boisterously  humorous.  Like 
a  true  realist,  she  calculates  with  nicety  the  true  valu- 
ation and  effect  of  every  item,  and  with  her,  exaggeration 
is  impossible. 

What  did  this  remarkable  woman  teach  the  novelists 
of  her  century?  She  showed  more  emphatically  than 
any  other  writer  since  Richardson  the  potential  import- 
ance of  the  passing  thought,  the  barely  suggested  hint, 
the  petty  deed.  She  displayed  a  masterly  power  in 
revealing  the  inner  being  by  the  every-day  doings  of 
the  outer  being.  She  set  forth  clearly  the  theory  that 
the  realist,  by  his  very  truthfulness,  becomes  something 
of  a  social  critic.  She  attacked  petty  prejudice,  arti- 
ficial distinctions,  the  tyranny  of  tradition,  the  selfish- 

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ENGLISH  FICTION 

ness  of  certain  types  of  humanity,  and  the  worldliness 
of  others,  with  a  mild  irony  fully  as  irritating  as  the 
bold  pictures  of  Dickens  or  the  keen  satire  of  Thackeray. 
She  lacked  what  all  realists  are  in  danger  of  lacking — 
a  comprehension  of  the  poetry  that  actually  exists 
amidst  the  sordidness  of  humanity,  and  which,  after  all, 
redeems  life  and  keeps  the  soul  sweet  and  sane. 

Sro  WALTER   SCOTT 

It  is  popular  to-day  to  exercise  a  bit  of  condescen- 
sion towards  Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832)^ — especially 
on  the  part  of  those  whose  hobby  is  psychology.  It  is 
very  true  that  Scott  deals  but  sparingly  in  this  modern 
science;  his  forte  is  strong,  vigorous,  healthy,  normal, 
physical  life — the  sort  of  life  that  exists  only  through 
morality,  and  doubtless  he  would  have  considered  some 
of  our  modern  psychological  problem-fiction  nothing 
short  of  scandalous.  Undoubtedly  he  had  various  other 
defects  as  a  literary  artist.  Indeed,  at  some  time  or 
other  he  may  have  broken  every  canon  of  literary  art. 
His  characters  come  upon  us  abruptly;  he  describes 
them  instead  of  letting  them  describe  themselves.  He 
succumbs  to  the  dangerous  temptation  of  stopping  to 
talk  about  all  sorts  of  extraneous  matters.  He  handles 
so  many  characters  that  he  even  forgets  he  has  killed 
some  of  them,  and  nonchalantly  brings  them  back  to 
carry  on  further  adventures.  However,  some  of  the 
characters  of  modern  fiction  are  dead  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  neither  they  nor  their  authors  have  ^'psy- 
chology ' '  enough  to  discover  it.  •  Scott  himself  ad- 
mitted various  other  weaknesses.  He  confessed  that  he 
could  not  build  his  stories  to  a  graduated  scale  and 

292 


md  I 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

allow  them  to  evolve  smoothly  and  logically.  Many  of 
his  scenes  are  indeed  '^unlabored"  and  '* loosely  put 
together."  As  he  himself  says,  he  has  a  habit  of  '* hud- 
dling up''  his  conclusions.  In  style  he  is  at  times  pos- 
itively incorrect  in  both  grammar  and  rhetoric.  These 
taints,  it  would  seem,  should  damn  any  author  for  time 
and  eternity. 

What,  then,  makes  him  survive  ?  The  reasons  for  his 
survival  are  far  more  numerous  than  the  reasons  for  ^ 
his  literary  death.  His  spontaneity  is  exhilarating.  His 
characters  may  oftentimes  be  simply  strong,  healthy 
youngsters,  and  the  stories  may  frequently  carry  them 
along,  and  not  they  the  stories.  But  despite  this  lack 
of  subtlety,  his  own  vigorous  interest  is  infectious.  By 
means  of  sheer  virility  he  compels  us  to  follow  him  in 
hot  and  hasty  pursuit.  This  is  all  the  more  remarkable 
when  we  consider  the  diffuseness  of  his  work.  Every 
living  mortal  has  innumerable  strings  of  attachment  to 
the  life  about  him ;  even  his  cook  and  his  tailor  influence 
his  character.  It  is  far  wiser,  therefore,  in  telling  his 
story,  to  set  him  free  from  all  but  the  most  important 
attachments,  and  view  him  as  influenced  by  particular 
tendencies  in  his  environment.  This  Scott  does  not  al- 
ways do,  and  the  result  is  huge  and  sometimes  confused 
pictures  of  life.  And  yet,  amidst  a  multitude  of  actions 
and  currents  of  life,  he  carries  us  along  with  remark- 
able intensity,  and  causes  the  hero's  career  to  be  almost 
a  matter  of  life  and  death  with  us. 

Human  nature  and  virility — ^these  are  two  saving 
graces  in  Scott's  novels.  His  knowledge  of  the  past 
and  his  knowledge  of  the  men  walking  the  Scottish 
borders  with  him,  give  him  the  tone  of  one  who  is  as- 

293 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

sured  of  his  facts,  and  this,  assuredly,  adds  to  the 
comfort  of  the  reader.  Few  men,  moreover,  either  sis 
authors  or  men,  have  been  more  frank  and  lovable. 
Few  have  held  before  their  readers  such  noble  ideals 
of  real  manhood.  His  pictures  of  life  and  his  portrayal 
of  historical  figures  may  not  be  altogether  correct — ex- 
treme accuracy  is  neither  to  be  expected  nor  desired — 
but  that  he  creates  the  proper  atmosphere  can  scarcely 
be  doubted.  Many  a  man  has  gained  a  better  concep- 
tion of  the  evolution  of  British  life  from  his  Shake- 
speare and  Scott  than  from  any  number  of  accurately 
written  treatises  on  history.  Old  Mortality  (1816), 
dealing  with  the  Covenanters,  Woodstock  (1826),  illus- 
trating the  difference  between  the  Cavalier  and  the 
Puritan,  Ivanhoe  (1820),  portraying  the  days  of  Eich- 
ard  I,  doubtless  could  not  endure  the  microscopic  in- 
vestigations of  the  specialist ;  but  surely  they  show  with 
admirable  impressiveness  the  larger  spirit  of  the  times 
with  which  they  deal. 

Scott  admired  and  loved  the  clash  of  life,  the  fair, 
open,  vigorous  fight,  whether  between  individuals  or 
social  classes.  And  since  few  men  of  the  nineteenth 
century  have  possessed  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of 
a  multitude  of  social  planes,  the  result  is  a  vast  array 
of  material  with  which  to  work — magic,  feuds,  Scotch 
home  life,  chivalry,  duels,  courtships,  feasts,  religious 
controversies,  forest  life,  roadside  traditions,  supersti- 
tions, what  not.  Before  his  day  Scotland  was  very  little 
known ;  since  his  day  it  has  been  a  charmed  land. 

It  has  been  declared  that  Scott  set  back  realism  a 
half-century;  but  this  doubtless  is  an  exaggerated 
statement.     He    mingled    weirdness,    realism,    romanti- 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

cism,  the  sordid,  the  ideal,  anything  that  served  his  pur- 
pose. He  drew  upon  superstition,  criminology ,  the 
picaresque,  the  Gothic ;  he  used  the  ghosts  in  the  tum- 
bled-down  castles,  the  spirits  of  the  hills,  the  demons 
of  the  forests ;  he  seemingly  laughed  theories  and  f ormu- 
lators  of  theories  to  scorn.  In  the  creation  of  his  char- 
acters he  is  either  realistic  or  romantic  as  the  theme  or 
setting  requires.  As  a  general  rule,  in  dealing  with  the 
lower  classes,  he  is  realistic;  but  when  dealing  with  the 
upper  classes  he  oftentimes  allows  his  romantic  temper- 
ament to  run  away  with  him.  Some  of  his  creatures 
are  decidedly  realistic  personifications  of  Scotch  fanati- 
cism; others,  such  as  Fergus  Maclvor  and  his  sister 
Flora,  are  idealistic  personifications  of  the  higher  traits 
of  the  national  life.  His  bandits  are  scarcely  ever 
the  seventeenth-century  importations  from  Spain  and 
Italy,  but  are  simply  average  or  below-average  men, 
hiding  in  the  mountain  fastnesses  or  frequenting  the 
low  seamen's  resorts.  Many  of  his  figures  are  of  the  con- 
ventional sort — brave,  strong  lovers,  or  beautiful,  tender 
women. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  a  just  criticism  to  consider  Scott 
as  an  enemy  of  realism  and  an  unswerving  devotee  of 
romanticism.  He  was  a  lover  of  the  old  and  far  off,- 
and  undoubtedly  he  idealized  some  phases  of  the  past — 
but  by  no  means  all.  With  a  few  historical  characters 
in  the  background,  and  his  own  imaginary  figures  at  the 
front  of  the  stage,  he  could  create  a  fascinating  atmos- 
phere in  which  his  invented  creatures  move  with  veri- 
similitude. 

Taine,  it  would  seem,  has  somewhat  missed  the  mark 
when  he  says  of  this  very  matter  of  Scott's  use  of  the 

295 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

spirit  of  an  age:  *' Costumes,  scenery,  externals  alone 
are  exact;  actions,  speech,  sentiments,  all  the  rest  is 
civilized,  embellished,  arranged  in  modern  guise/' 
Surely  Ivanhoe,  Old  Mortality,  The  Talisman,  a  score  of 
others,  have  captured  something  of  the  '^ actions''  and 
* 'sentiment,"  if  nothing  else,  of  a  past  long  since  dead. 
Such  ever-famous  scenes  as  the  tournament  in  Ivanhoe, 
"when  the  Disinherited  Knight  overcomes  all  adversaries, 
and  the  sword  scene  in  The  Talisman,  where  Richard's 
mighty  blade  is  tested  beside  the  Saladin  's  slender  scim- 
itar— such  scenes  retain  their  fame  because,  better  than 
many  tomes  of  history,  they  apparently  have  captured 
the  spirit  of  an  epoch.  Scott  had  a  keen  eye  for  those 
effective  combinations  or  contrasts  that  could  present 
vividly  the  conflict  between  two  opposing  forces,  parties, 
or  races.  That  sword  scene  in  the  Saladin 's  tent  and 
that  tournament  where  Anglo-Saxon  and  Norman  burn 
with  jealousy  have  their  value  as  sociological  studies  as 
well  as  for  their  rare  descriptive  art. 

Taine,  perhaps  truly,  says  of  Scott's  characters: 
*' Select  heroines  .  .  .  always  touching  but  above 
all  correct;  young  gentlemen,  Evandale,  Morton,  Ivan- 
hoe,  irreproachably  brought  up,  tender  and  grave,  even 
slightly  melancholic  .  .  .  and  worthy  to  lead  them 
to  the  altar.  Is  there  a  man  more  suited  than  the  au- 
thor to  compose  such  a  spectacle?  He  is  a  good  Prot- 
estant, a  good  husband,  a  good  father,  very  moral,  so 
decided  a  Tory  that  he  carries  off  as  a  relic  a  glass  from 
which  the  king  has  just  drunk.  In  addition  he  has 
neither  talent  nor  leisure  to  reach  the  depth  of  his 
characters."  This  Frenchman  should  have  remembered, 
however,  that  the  British  of  the  nineteenth  century  de- 

296 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

manded  morality  in  their  heroes  and  heroines;  that  the 
Anglo-Saxons  have  always  demanded  that  their  art  and 
literature  contribute  to  the  moral  welfare  of  mankind; 
and  that  Scott,  rather  fortunately,  chose  to  answer  this 
demand.  Of  course,  this  of  necessity  made  his  pictures 
of  the  past  incomplete  in  so  far  as  they  were  mainly 
idealistic ;  no  author  in  these  days  could  afford  to  revive 
the  vulgarity,  the  sins  of  the  flesh,  the  deep  injustice, 
the  ferocious  cruelty  of  the  centuries  that  are  gone.  All 
critics  must  admit,  however,  that  Scott  did  not  '*  reach  ^ 
the  depth  of  his  characters."  Ivanhoe  might  desire 
Rebecca  rather  than  Rowena;  but  the  process  of  his 
reasoning  and  the  distress  through  which  he  might  have 
gone  to  reach  a  conquest  over  this  desire  are  matters 
overlooked  by  Scott.  Doubtless,  deep  in  his  heart,  Scott 
considered  the  story  itself  much  more  interesting  than 
the  characters  around  which  it  moved. 

As  Masson  has  pointed  out,^  the  one  Scotch  trait 
thoroughly  lacking  in  this  novelist  was  the  metaphysical. 
He  was  neither  speculative  nor  philosophical.  This 
forever  prevented  him  from  portraying  such  master 
souls  as  Shakespeare  has  created  in  Hamlet  and  Mac- 
heth.  We  could  tell  most  clearly  what  his  heroes 
looked  like;  we  could  recognize  them  among  millions; 
but  the  ** inner  man"  is  not  revealed.  This  may  also 
be  the  reason  why  he  was  never  highly  successful  in  pre- 
senting a  thoroughly  convincing  picture  of  a  great  his- 
torical personage.  Where  he  does  succeed,  undeniably, 
is  in  the  more  difficult  and  more  important  picturing 
of  the  general  soul  of  an  age  or  of  a  people ;  in  short,  in 
the  excellence  of  his  '* social  pictures."    '*From  Ivan- 

1  British  Novelists,  p.  207.  •* 

297 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

hoe  to  Edie  Ochiltree,  from  Lucy  Ashton  to  Jeanie 
Deans,  from  the  knightly  achievements  of  the  Crusade 
to  the  humours  of  the  Scottish  peasantry — ^this  is  the 
panorama  he  reveals,  and  he  casts  over  it  the  light  of  his 
generous,  gentle,  and  delicate  nature. ' '  ^  Yet,  let  us  not 
gain  the  impression  that  these  character  portrayals  are 
false  because  not  deep.  What  a  gathering  of  figures  in 
this  mass  of  romance — ^hundreds  of  them!  Meg  Mer- 
rilies,  Dominie  Sampson,  the  Antiquary,  Madge  Wild- 
fire, Effie  Deans,  Jeanie — if  all  might  be  placed  before 
us  in  one  jostling,  rough,  hearty,  shrewd,  ^'cannie'' 
crowd,  we  should  be  impelled  to  exclaim,  '*This  is  in- 
deed Scotland!" 

Scott's  novels  are  great  in  general  grasp  and  vision 
and  not  in  detail.  He  was  verbose  and  tautologous; 
he  so  loved  the  mere  telling  of  the  story  that  he  pre- 
ferred to  linger  over  the  picture  of  the  hero  or  event 
rather  than  to  write  the  all-embracing  adjective.  Yet 
diffuse  as  he  may  be,  his  plots,  vast  in  their  material, 
move  steadily  onward.  Note  this  in  the  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian.  The  riot,  the  passion  of  the  Edinburgh  multi- 
tude, the  stir  and  bustle  of  a  momentous  hour  in  a  great 
city, — these  are  put  before  us;  episode  after  episode  is 
presented  with  astonishing  vigor — episodes  that  almost 
appear  to  have  been  written  for  their  own  power  of 
arousing  interest  in  themselves^ — and  yet  through  it  all 
Scott  centers  our  attention  on  Effie  Deans,  and  not 
once  may  we  declare  the  plot  clogged.  This  book  alone 
would  prove  Scott's  masterly  grasp  over  a  mass  of  ma- 
terial and  an  array  of  actors  that  might  well  dismay  the 
best  of  our  more  artistic  modern  novelists. 


2  Raleigh:     English  Novel,  p.  283. 

298 


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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

The  plot  of  this  work,  as  of  the  others,  falls  short, 
of  course,  of  being  ideal.  Scott  is  not  satisfied  with 
reaching  a  climax ;  he  must  go  on  for  pure  joy  of  creat- 
ing. After  the  thirty-seventh  chapter,  when  Jeanie 
Deans  obtains  favor  with  the  queen,  our  interest  in  the 
plot  itself  may  begin  to  decrease;  but  our  interest  in 
the  remaining  pictures  is  by  no  means  ended.  Scott 
knew  that  he  had  a  leisurely  audience;  it  enjoyed  the 
sustained  characterization  of  those  concluding  chap- 
ters; above  all  else,  it  found  interest  in  those  vivid 
pictures  of  ancient  days.  And  who,  except  the  critic 
who  cannot  forget  for  a  moment  the  rhetorical  rules  of 
unity  and  coherence,  does  not  yet  find  the  same  interest 
and  pleasure?  Here,  in  this  fine  blending  of  the  poet 
and  the  historian,  is  love  of  the  old  for  its  own  sake.  A 
few  years  before  Scott's  time  Johnson  had  declared  any 
man  a  fool  who  wrote  from  any  other  motive  than 
money-making ;  Scott  would  have  written  of  the  antique 
had  never  a  penny  resulted.  His  chief  joy  seemed  to  be 
to  repeat,  to  relate,  to  revive  the  past.  Concerning  that 
love  for  the  ancient,  hear  his  own  words : 

''But  show  me  an  old  castle  or  a  field  of  battle,  and 
I  was  at  home  at  once,  filled  it  with  its  combatants  in 
their  proper  costume,  and  overwhelmed  my  hearers  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  my  description.  In  crossing  Magus 
Moor,  near  St.  Andrews,  the  spirit  moved  me  to  give  a 
picture  of  the  assassination  of  the  Archbishop  of  St. 
Andrews  to  some  fellow-travelers,  .  .  .  and  one  of 
them,  though  well  acquainted  with  the  story,  protested 
my  narrative  had  frightened  away  his  night's  sleep. "^ 

Unlike  many  British  of  his  own  day  and  ours,  he 

3  Lockhart's  Life;  Autobiography,  1,  p.  62. 

299 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

could  imagine  that  there  might  possibly  be  some  other 
age,  people,  or  code  of  life  and  ethics  better  than  those 
of  Britain  in  his  own  time.  He  therefore  steeped  his 
imagination  in  the  atmosphere  of  other  days  and  other 
scenes  in  a  manner  imitated  with  but  great  difficulty 
and  small  success  by  many  of  his  fellow  writers. 

With  the  coming  of  the  Romantic  Movement,  there 
came  also  a  contest  between  prose  fiction  and  poetry. 
Poetry  might  well  claim  the  realm  of  romance ;  it  might 
well  claim  *^the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea." 
But  prose  fiction  won  because  it  might  dare  to  do  that 
which  would  have  destroyed  the  poetic  atmosphere  of 
poetry :  the  mingling  of  humor  and  intense  realism  with 
the  loftiest  romantic  themes.  Set  that  valiant  tourna- 
ment scene  of  Ivanhoe  beside  the  fish-market  scene  in 
The  Antiquary;  such  a  contrast  would  be  impossijble  in 
a  volume  of  true  poetry.  Thus  Scott,  when  he  gave  up 
the  song  and  ballad  for  the  less  artistic  prose  tale,  en- 
larged his  freedom  and  gave  his  genius  the  power  to 
portray  with  equal  truth  the  homely  and  the  ideal. 

What,  then,  were  the  effects  of  that  long  series  of 
prose  tales  beginning  in  1814  and  ending  in  1831  ?  By 
his  wholesomeness  Scott  gave  the  English  novel  a  re- 
spectability it  had  never  enjoyed  before.  He  scarcely 
ever  thrust  morality  upon  his  readers;  but  his  clean, 
strong  men  and  fair,  virtuous  women  were  strong  ar- 
guments for  righteousness  through  their  ideal  manhood 
and  womanhood.  He  had  equals  in  character-making, 
and  numerous  superiors  in  plot  construction;  but  very 
few  writers  of  English  fiction  have  surpassed  him  in  the 
maintenance  of  an  all-round  high  standard  and  an  ab- 
sorbing interest.     In  style  he  lacked  the  artistic  and 

300 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

subtle  touches  so  emphasized  in  the  later  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century ;  but  he  wrote  with  a  vim,  a  sweep, 
and  a  rush  that  have  not  yet  forfeited  the  admiration 
of  the  critics.  In  his  truthfulness  to  Scottish  life  and 
spirit,  he  made  local  color  so  important  that  few  novel- 
ists, since  his  day,  have  dared  neglect  it.  He  manipu- 
lated a  host  of  figures  over  a  vast  field  with  such 
assurance  and  daring  that  those  who  look  closely  into 
the  matter  can  but  wonder  that  he  made  so  few  mis- 
takes. Finally,  he  made  the  past  live  again;  he  made 
history  a  matter  of  absorbing  interest ;  he  converted  the 
scenes  and  deeds  of  a  nation's  records  into  a  veritable 
dreamland,  tinted  with  the  glamour  of  beautiful  ro- 
mance. 

SCOTT 'S   DISCIPLES 

Such  a  strong  personality  as  that  of  Scott  could  not 
but  influence  a  great  number  of  observers  and  creative 
writers.  In  his  own  country,  Scotland,  his  spirit  may 
be  seen  in  such  works  as  John  Gait's  Annals  of  the  Par- 
ish, Wilson's  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,  and 
possibly  Jane  Porter's  novels.  In  America  Cooper, 
Simms,  Kennedy,  Paulding,  and  Charles  Brockden 
Brown  show  themselves  his  disciples.  In  Germany  we 
find  Haring's  Walladmor  (1824),  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  Waverley  novel  with  German  touches;  Freytag 
openly  acknowledges  his  indebtedness;  while  Georg 
Ebers  was  under  no  necessity  of  a  public  acknowledg- 
ment. In  France,  w^here  we  should  expect  Scott's  mis- 
takes to  be  noticed  most  clearly,  we  find  Alfred  de 
Vigny  copying  his  manner  in  Cinq-Mars  (1826),  Pros- 
per Merimee  using  the  same  general  form  in  his  La 

301 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Chronique  du  Regne  de  Charles  IX  (1829),  and  Victor 
Hugo  using  many  a  trait  of  Scott's  in  Notre  Dame 
(1830).  Even  in  Italy  Manzoni's  The  Betrothed 
(1824)  proves  the  potency  of  the  border  minstrel's 
original  way  of  using  mystery,  sweeping  action,  native 
manners,  and  strong,  broad  characterization. 

The  English  followers  of  Scott — at  a  distance — are  of 
course  innumerable.  Mrs.  Anna  Bray's  The  Protestant 
(1828)  is  an  early  example,  while  her  Fitz  of  Fitzford, 
Trelawney  of  Trelawne,  and  Hartland  Forest,  dealing 
with  the  life  of  Devon  and  Cornwall,  are  still  better 
examples  of  fiction  specialized  to  a  particular  section. 
Horace  Smith's  BramUetye  House  (1826),  Oliver 
Cromwell,  and  Arthur  Arundel,  while  written  in  a  prose 
exceedingly  dull  at  times,  contain  some  vivid  pictures 
of  the  Cavaliers  in  Cromwell's  days.  G.  P.  R.  James, 
author  of  more  than  one  hundred  pieces  of  fiction,  was 
clearly  under  the  direct  influence  of  Scott;  but  he 
lacked  the  minstrel's  glamour  of  romance,  and  would 
be  almost  totally  forgotten  had  not  Thackeray's  bur- 
lesque on  his  Richelieu  (1829)  given  him  some  doubtful 
fame.  William  Harrison  Ainsworth  in  such  works  a^ 
Rookwood  (1834)  and  Jack  Shepard  (1839)  goes  be- 
yond Scott  in  the  use  of  crimes,  and  almost  returns  to 
the  Gothic  terrors  in  his  descriptions  of  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  the  condemned.  He  has  Scott's  passion 
for  wild  adventures,  and  one  of  these,  Dick  Turpin's 
wild  ride  from  London  to  York  with  the  reins  in  his 
teeth  and  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  is  not  likely  to  sink 
into  complete  obscurity.  In  such  stories  as  The  Tower 
of  London,  Old  Saint  PauVs,  and  Windsor  Castle,  Ains- 
worth takes  as  the  center  or  goal  of  his  story  some  great 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

event  like  the  London  Fire  or  the  Plagne,  and  weaves 
about  it  a  melodramatic  chronicle  of  crime  or  weirdness. 
In  the  later  years  of  the  century  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
seemed  in  many  ways  a  re-created  Scott ;  while  even  in 
the  twentieth  century  Hall  Caine  has  poured  forth  a 
turbulent  stream  of  fiction,  having  undoubtedly  a  source 
in  the  work  of  Scott,  but  far  more  passionate  and  lack- 
ing in  the  noble  humanity  of  the  Waverley  stories. 

Thus,  through  a  hundred  years  this  lover  of  the 
Scottish  life  and  song  has  made  his  influence  felt.  The 
immense  vigor  thrown  into  his  works,  the  vividness  with 
which  he  felt  and  saw  his  characters'  emotions  and 
deeds,  the  coloring  of  old,  far-off  events,  the  persistent 
victories  of  the  nobler  attributes  of  mankind,  the  sweep 
and  virility  of  his  plots — these  traits  doubtless  are  the 
main  causes  of  his  permanent  popularity,  and  may  be 
the  incentives  for  future  masters  of  romance.  Just  now 
there  is  a  tendency  for  all  novelists  to  be  painstaking 
photographers,  but  the  dreamers  of  the  good,  the  beauti- 
ful, the  ideal  have  by  no  means  passed  away. 

BULWER-LYTTON 

Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton  (1803-1873),  is  an- 
other novelist  undoubtedly  influenced  by  the  great  Sir 
Walter ;  but  Bulwer-Lytton  was  such  a  literary  weather- 
cock that  he  could  not  long  abide  the  disciple  of  any 
one  great  master.  Few  men  in  English  literature  un- 
dertook so  many  kinds  of  writing  with  so  much  success, 
and  no  other  English  novelist  has  ever  attempted  so 
many  widely  different  types  of  fiction.  He  constantly 
had  his  finger  close  to  the  British  literary  pulse,  and  the 
varying  tastes  of  the  reading  public  promptly  brought 

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ENGLISH  FICTION 

the  proper  changes  in  his  output.  In  his  early  novel, 
Pelham  (1828),  he  created  a  brilliant  society  story;  in 
Paul  Clifford  (1830)  he  produced  a  melodramatic  tale 
of  criminal  life;  in  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine  (1834)  he 
wrote  a  dainty  fairy  story;  in  such  books  as  Bienzi 
(1835),  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii  (1834),  Harold 
(1848),  and  The  Last  of  the  Barons  (1843),  he  dis- 
played his  power  in  precise  historical  romances.  In 
Ernest  Maltravers  he  attempted  with  some  success  an 
analysis  of  social  questions  of  his  day;  in  The  Caxtons 
(1849)  and  its  continuation  My  Novel  (1853),  he 
wrote  skilful  imitations  of  Sterne ;  in  The  Coming  Race 
(1871)  he  used  the  new  science  and  the  new  thought  of 
his  time,  just  as  Edward  Bellamy  did  seventeen  years 
later  in  his  Looking  Backward,  to  prophesy  the  goal  of 
the  present  tendencies  of  civilization;  in  Pausanias 
(1876)  and  Kenelm  Chillingly  he  endeavored  to  make 
clear  the  effect  of  national  institutions  and  environments 
upon  the  individual. 

It  required  a  man  with  an  immense  knowledge  of  life 
to  produce  such  a  variety  of  fiction.  Bulwer-Lytton 
possessed  such  a  knowledge,  and  with  it  the  persever- 
ance and  accuracy  of  a  zealous  student,  remarkable  in- 
ventive powers,  a  sense  of  humor,  and  a  most  facile 
pen.  Critics  have  scoffed  at  his  pretensions,  and  have 
sometimes  refused  him  a  place  among  the  greater  nov- 
elists of  the  century;  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
created  some  characters  that  seem  destined  to  live,  some 
new  and  intensely  dramatic  scenes  and  situations,  and  a 
number  of  descriptions  not  frequently  equaled  and 
seldom  surpassed  in  our  language.  That  he  is  some- 
times overcome  by  his  vast  array  of  historical  facts  and 

304 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

crowds  his  canvas  with  two  many  incidents  is  apparent 
to  any  one  who  has  read  The  Last  of  the  Barons;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  Harold,  Bienzi,  and  The  Last  Bays 
of  Pompeii  leave  an  impression  of  reality  which  only  a 
masterly  pen  could  produce.  And  whether  or  not  the 
picture  be  overcrowded,  it  is  vivid  in  its  coloring  and 
abounding  with  life. 

The  formula  upon  which  these  historical  romances 
are  based  is  sufficiently  apparent.  Bulwer-Lytton  gen- 
erally shows  some  great  crisis  or  momentous  turning 
point  in  the  world's  history,  and  presents  in  much  de- 
tail the  events  leading  up  to  the  social  or  civic  up- 
heaval. The  Last  Bays  of  Pompeii  is  a  conspicuous 
example  of  the  process.  Here,  however,  he  developed 
an  admirable  story  under  great  difficulties;  for,  having 
gathered  a  multitude  of  facts,  and  having  undeniably 
gained  the  atmosphere,  he  could  find  no  historical  char- 
acters to  place  in  the  scene,  and  was  under  the  necessity 
of  creating  figures  that  appeared  to  fit  the  situation 
and  the  environment.  Nydia,  the  blind  girl,  shoul(J  be 
sufficient  proof  of  his  success.  These  historical  tales, 
as  well  as  several  of  his  other  works,  are  in  reality 
dramas  with  comments,  and  the  scenes  there  described 
might  easily  be  staged;  they  are  in  some  phases  too 
plainly  theatrical.  In  spite  of  their  vividness  and  won- 
derful pictures  these  stories  of  the  past  have  not  quite 
that-  romance  which  has  made  Scott's  woi*k  beloved. 
Bulwer-Lytton  looked  at  history  more  often  from  the 
philosopher's  standpoint;  his  books  contain  studies  in 
culture  and  national  motives;  Scott  dealt  more  fre- 
quently with  those  larger  traits  found  universally  in 
man. 

20  305 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

It  has  been  indicated  that  Bulwer-Lytton  passed 
from  master  to  master.  Jane  Austen  may  have  given 
suggestions  for  his  society  stories ;  Scott  and  Jane  Por- 
ter made  the  path  clear  for  his  historical  romances; 
Sterne  was  a  little  too  plainly  his  teacher  in  The  Cax- 
tons  and  My  Novel.  Here  we  are  introduced  to  old 
English  village  life;  here  we  meet  an  old  captain, 
plainly  a  descendant  of  Uncle  Toby;  here,  too,  is  the 
man  like  Mr.  Shandy,  dealing  in  abstruse  theories.  A 
lame  duck,  a  moth  nearly  killed  by  going  too  near  the 
fire,  and  a  dilapidated  donkey  are  brought  forward  to 
lay  claim  to  our  sympathy.  The  fantastic  style  and  the 
playing  with  ideas  and  words  complete  the  imitation. 

But  whatever  this  author  attempted  he  did  surpris- 
ingly well.  Eeviving  the  old  type  of  Gothic  romance, 
he  brought  out  the  nobler  and  more  poetic  qualities 
latent  in  it.  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine  is  a  dainty  concep- 
tion of  the  meeting  and  love-making  of  English  and  Ger- 
man fairies.  Zanoni  (1842)  using  the  old  theme  of  the 
Rosicrucians,  a  belief  in  spiritual  beings  who  impart 
the  secrets  of  the  universe  to  the  pure,  tells  the  story 
of  such  a  man,  who,  after  marrying  an  opera  girl,  loses 
his  knowledge  and  power,  and  is  killed  in  the  Reign  of 
Terror.  Surely  Bulwer-Lytton  saw  the  possibilities  of 
greatness  and  high  nobility  in  every  theme,  and  strove 
zealously  to  evolve  such  qualities. 

Why,  then,  has  his  work  shown  so  little  promise  of 
permanence?  In  the  first  place,  he  made  himself  a 
victim  of  ridicule  in  his  earlier  days  by  his  affectations 
and  somewhat  pompous  style.  In  the  second  place,  even 
when  these  defects  were  partially  remedied  in  his  later 
work,  he  remained  entirely  too  rhetorical.     Again,  he 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

was  entirely  too  much  interested  in  the  historical,  social, 
or  ethical  lesson  which  he  desired  his  novel  to  teach. 
He  possessed  genuine  creative  power  in  both  plot  and 
character;  but  he  limited  this  power  in  his  efforts  to 
make  these  two  elements  fit  the  lesson  or  ethical  rule  to 
be  thrust  home.  Like  Scott,  he  often  refused  to  allow 
his  characters  to  reveal  themselves,  but  insisted  upon 
describing  them  himself.  Lastly,  that  intense  person- 
ality, which  Sidney  Lanier  declares  the  crowning  virtue 
of  modern  literature,  and  which  made  Scott  and  Dickens 
masters  in  spite  of  their  defects,  was  not  his.  And 
yet,  Bienzi  and  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii  are  likely  to 
retain  readers  for  centuries  to  come.  For  Bulwer-Lyt- 
ton,  if  not  an  author  possessing  personal  magnetism,  at 
least  saw  vividly  and  compelled,  by  his  accuracy  and 
painstaking  zeal,  the  same  vivid  realization  on  the  part 
of  his  readers. 

GOTHIC  REVIVALS 

It  is  interesting  to  see  how  often  the  weird  form  of 
the  Gothic  romance  revived  and  fitted  itself  into  the 
advancing  conceptions  of  the  mysterious.  We  have  no- 
ticed how  Bulwer-Lytton  refined  it  and  brought  out  so 
successfully  a  number  of  its  daintier  and  nobler  quali- 
ties. As  the  nineteenth  century  progressed  the  type 
became  more  specialized  in  the  detective  story  and  the 
tale  of  pure  terror.  It  seemed  to  have  a  fascination  for 
many  widely  different  kinds  of  intellect.  In  1829  a 
volume  entitled  Colloquies  on  Society,  containing  the 
talks  of  Sir  Thomas  More's  ghost  to  Robert  Southey, 
attracted  much  attention.  Mrs.  Shelley's  monstrous 
Frankenstein  seems  to  have  startled  half  of  Europe. 

307 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

She  and  her  husband  and  Byron,  while  spending  a 
rainy  week  at  Lake  Geneva,  whiled  away  their  time 
inventing  ghost  stories,  and  this  highly  imaginative 
woman  conceived  the  idea  of  having  a  medical  student 
construct  a  man-like  monster  from  materials  gathered 
from  tombs  and  dissecting  rooms.  The  creature  comes 
to  life,  wreaks  vengeance  upon  the  student  and  others, 
and  at  length  ends  its  strenuous  existence  in  the  North 
Sea.  This  was  indeed  running  Gothicism  to  an  extreme. 
In  1820  Charles  Maturin,  an  Irishman,  made  some  im- 
provements on  the  type  by  using  terror  openly  and 
frankly  in  his  Melmoth,  The  Wanderer,  where  we  are 
shown  two  lovers  captive  in  a  dungeon,  slowly  driven 
by  starvation  and  loneliness  to  madness  and  death. 
Poe  himself  could  scarcely  have  excelled  this  theme  in 
gruesomeness.  Wilkie  Collins,  a  genuine  genius  in  plot 
construction,  exemplified  in  his  Woman  in  White  and 
Moonstone  a  more  intricate  and  ingenious  turn  of  the 
Gothic.  Perhaps  the  most  pleasant  turn  the  Gothic  ever 
took  is  to  be  found  in  Alice  in  Wonderland,  where  the 
merging  of  the  real  with  the  unreal  produces  the 
very  experiences  most  often  met  with  in  dreams.  There 
is  in  human  nature  a  secret  or  open  desire  to  know  the 
details  of  the  horrible,  or  to  wander  into  the  mysterious 
regions  that  border  on  death,  and  as  long  as  this  ten- 
dency exists,  we  may  expect  to  find  the  Gothic  revive 
now  and  again  in  modified  but  no  less  weird  forms. 

As  life  and  society  become  more  and  more  complex, 
fiction  must  necessarily  display  more  varied  and  dis- 
tinct types.  Particularly  has  this  been  exemplified  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  Indeed  it  would  be  confusing, 
if  not  almost  impossible,  to  dwell  in  detail  upon  the 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

theories,  customs,  hobbies,  scientific  ideas,  creeds,  dog- 
mas, and  philosophies  for  which  fiction  has  been  used 
in  the  past  hundred  years.  Every  class  of  society  has 
contributed  not  only  material  but  authors,  and  no  type 
of  human  life  has  been  without  its  interpreters  to  ex- 
press its  own  peculiar  view  of  existence,  and  its  pur- 
poses and  goals.  ,  Let  us  but  glance  at  a  few  of  these 
interpretations  in  the  earlier  years  of  the  century. 

IRISH   FICTION 

We  have  noticed  elsewhere  Miss  Edgeworth's  pleasant 
and  interesting  pictures  of  Irish  life;  such  work  was 
of  course  destined  to  tempt  imitators.  William  Carle- 
ton's  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry,  very 
serious  and  realistic  at  times,  further  revealed  to  the 
English  people  the  trials  and  pathos  of  their  Celtic 
neighbors.  Samuel  Lover  in  such  fiction  as  Handy 
Andy  (1842)  brought  out  even  more  vividly  the  broad 
Irish  humor.  Miss  Sidney  Owenson  wept  and  moaned 
over  her  Celtic  folk.  Thomas  Croker's  Last  of  the  Irish 
SarpintSy  and  Charles  Lever's  dashing  novels,  such  as 
Charles  O'Malley,  The  Irish  Dragoon,  and  Tom  Burke 
of  Ours  would  easily  counteract  any  tendency  to  look 
upon  Erin  as  the  land  of  tears ;  while  the  stories  of  Jus- 
tin McCarthy,  Lady  Morgan,  and  T.  C.  Gratton  would! 
completely  demolish  such  an  idea. 

WAR   AND   SEA   FICTION 

The  soldier  and  sailor  life  of  Great  Britain  has  long 
been  a  favorite  theme  with  English  writers,  and  the 
nineteenth  century  saw  a  deluge  of  such  fiction.  Fred- 
erick Marryat,  who  himself  had  been  a  naval  officer, 

309 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

harked  back  to  the  Smollett  type,  and  in  Peter  Simple 
(1834)  and  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy  (1836)  produced  a 
deal  of  hearty  fun  mingled  with  some  decidedly  im- 
probable sea  tales,  such  as  those  by  Captain  Kearney, 
who  simply  couldn't  tell  the  truth,  and  whose  tombstone 
bore  the  appropriate  epitaph:  *^Here  lies  Captain 
Kearney."  W.  H.  Maxwell,  an  Irishman,  author  of. 
Stories  of  Waterloo  (1834),  taking  as  his  themes  ^^wars 
and  rumors  of  war,"  generally  took  his  English  sol- 
diers to  some  wild  portion  of  Ireland,  and  then  trans-, 
ported  them  to  the  Continent  to  take  a  thrilling  part 
in  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  or  some  such  dread  combat. 
Waterloo  was  a  veritable  *'rock  in  the  wilderness"  for 
war  novelists  of  the  thirties  and  forties.  James  Grant, 
in  his  Highlanders  in  Spain  (1845)  has  the  hero  fight  in 
this  mighty  battle,  then  returns  him  to  his  Scottish  lass, 
and  thus  gains  for  the  book  all  the  charms  of  the  travel 
story,  the  story  of  manners,  the  story  of  adventures, 
and  the  love  story.  It  should  not  be  a  matter  of  won- 
der, therefore,  that  the  fifty  or  more  tales  produced 
by  Grant  on  this  formula  made  the  midnight  oil  burn 
freely  in  British  homes. 

Publishers  to  this  day  hold  that  the  *^ travel"  book 
is  a  good  venture  in  their  business;  the  array  of  suc- 
cessful stories  of  this  type  in  the  English  language  goes 
far  to  prove  their  theory.  British  novelists  of  the  early 
century  dared  to  reach  beyond  Waterloo  and  Spain  for 
their  materials  and  environments.  As  early  as  1823 
James  Morier,  in  his  efforts  to  bring  out  the  weirdness 
and  magic  of  the  Orient,  made  himself  ridiculous  in  his 
Eajji  Baha  of  Ispahan  and  fully  equaled  this  first  at- 
tempt with  his  Hajji  Baha  in  England  in  1828.     Charles 

310  1 


i 


i 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Reade's  Never  too  Late  to  Mend  contains  some  vivid 
pictures  of  the  Australian  gold  field,  and  had,  there- 
fore, a  wide  reading.  Even  in  these  later  years,  when 
the  world  seems  to  have  become  an  open  book,  such  works 
as  Hope's  Anastasius,  portraying  the  evil  of  Greek  and 
Turkish  life,  and  Kipling's  stories  of  India,  prove  the 
permanence  of  the  travel  motif  among  the  British 
readers. 

REALISM 

Undoubtedly  most  of  these  works  were  honest  attempts 
in  realism.  Their  authors  faithfully  endeavored  to  show 
life  as  they  thought  it  was  in  the  particular  spheres 
under  observation.  Realism,  as  we  have  seen,  is  no 
doubt  as  native  as  romanticism  to  the  British;  we  have 
seen  it  to  some  extent  in  Greene  and  Defoe,  and  any 
number  of  eighteenth-century  writers,  and  Jane  Austen 
gave  it  a  healthy  impetus  at  the  beginning  of  the  new 
century.  Even  Scott's  immense  vogue  could  not  crush 
it.  Several  of  his  Scottish  contemporaries  chose  to  por- 
tray the  life  of  their  own  day,  rather  than  that  of  a 
dim  and  idealized  past.  Susan  Ferrier,  for  instance, 
a  personal  friend  of  his,  wrote  some  surprisingly  real- 
istic work  in  her  Marriage  (1818),  The  Inheritance 
(1824),  and  Destiny  (1831).  In  Marriage  we  become 
acquainted  with  a  fashionable  English  girl  (with  three 
beloved  dogs)  who  marries  a  Scotchman  and  goes  to 
his  Highland  home  where  she  meets  his  prim  and  quaint 
sisters  and  aunts.  The  humor  of  some  of  the  situations 
may  easily  be  imagined. 

John  Gait,  in  his  Ayrshire  Legatees  (1820),  attempts 
very  much  the  same  sort  of  humorous  realism.     Here 

311 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

we  have  the  letters  of  an  Ayrshire  preacher  and  his 
family  to  his  friends,  and  their  descriptions  of  London 
sights  are  such  as  we  should  expect  from  *' Uncle  Josh" 
of  to-day.  Again,  in  Annals  of  the  Parish  (1821)  an 
Ayrshire  minister  tells  his  experiences  in  his  long  service 
as  pastor  in  the  little  village.  His  account  of  his  three 
successive  wives,  of  the  religious  and  industrial  changes 
in  the  community,  and  of  the  brave  widow,  Mrs.  Mal- 
colm, who  rears  her  family  in  sobriety  and  godliness, 
and  who  sees  her  daughter  married  happily,  and  her 
son  killed  fighting  the  French,  become  matters  of  gen- 
uine interest  to  all  who  read.  Indeed  this  is  the  very 
same  sort  of  work  that  Ian  Maclaren  developed  so  beau- 
tifully ;  both  showed  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  Scot- 
land that  they  knew  and  loved  so  well.  Dr.  David  Moir, 
with  the  help  of  Gait,  wrote  a  book  of  similar  pathetic 
and  humorous  charm  in  his  Mansie  Wauch  (1828).  The 
apprentice  who  comes  out  of  the  Lammermoor  hills  to 
work  in  the  town,  and  who,  pining  away  for  his  native 
land,  dies  on  the  road  back  to  the  beloved  valleys,  is 
a  figure  of  true,  pathetic  interest,  and  one  not  easily 
cast  from  the  memory  of  the  reader. 

In  England  the  same  realism  was  highly  popular. 
The  humor  of  Jane  Austen  was  a  trifle  too  difficult  in  its 
subtle  refinement  for  most  of  her  English  disciples  to 
imitate;  but  Mary  Mitford  in  Our  Village  (1824-1832), 
Harriet  Martineau  in  Five  Years  of  Youth,  or  Sense  and 
Sentiment  (1831),  E.  S.  Barrett  in  Adventures  of  Cher- 
ubina  (1813),  Richard  Barham  in  Ingoldsiy  Legends, 
and  Dinah  Mulock  in  The  Ogilvies  and  John  Halifax, 
followed  with  some  success  her  mingling  of  quiet  real- 
ism, half -hidden  irony,  and  pictures  of  domestic  circles. 

312 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

The  novel  of  manners  is  successful  only  when  certain 
traits  in  it  are  not  confined  to  the  limited  section  under 
discussion,  but  are,  on  the  contrary,  readily  appreciated 
for  their  universality.  The  works  just  mentioned  pos- 
sess the  charm  of  just  such  universal  traits;  but  some 
of  the  attempts  of  the  day  at  pictures  of  English  aristo- 
cratic life — a  legitimate  theme  when  based  on  actual 
knowledge — were  as  absurd  and  as  dangerous  morally 
as  some  of  the  **criminar'  novels  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries.  So,  too,  the  novel  of  purpose 
which  was  being  exploited  by  Bulwer-Lytton  was  an- 
other type  extremely  liable  to  failure  among  the  host  of 
would-be  novelists  of  the  first  fifty  years  of  the  period. 
Intense  interest  in  either  plot  or  character  is  necessary 
to  counteract  the  tendency  to  state  the  theory  or  hobby 
too  baldly;  the  appearance  of  fanaticism  ruins  a  story 
as  a  story;  the  plot  must  set  forth  some  of  the  larger 
general  interests  of  life  along  with  its  specialized  theme. 
Bulwer-Lytton  and,  later,  Charles  Dickens  had  the 
genius  to  combine  these  essentials ;  but  what  a  multitude 
of  ambitious,  but  now  forgotten  novelists  of  those  early 
days  failed  utterly  to  produce  a  work  that  would  live 
in  spite  of  its  theories ! 

BENJAMIN  DISRAELI 

We  have  seen  how  closely  Bulwer-Lytton  held  his  fin- 
ger on  the  British  literary  pulse,  and  how  quickly  he 
responded  to  the  fiction  demands  of  his  public.  At  the 
same  time  there  was  writing  another  novelist  who 
watched  his  public  just  as  closely,  but  for  political, 
rather  than  literary,  purposes.  This  was  the  brilliant 
Jew,  Benjamin  Disraeli    (1804-1881).     Bulwer-Lytton 

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has  been  criticized  by  some  students  for  his  supposed 
lack  of  pronounced  personality;  no  one  has  ever  ac- 
cused Benjamin  Disraeli  of  such  a  defect.  There  was 
one  man  from  whom  he  could  never  get  away  very  far 
— and  that  was  Disraeli.  From  his  first  novel,  Vivian 
Grey  (1826),  written  when  he  was  twenty-one,  to  En- 
dymion  (1880)  written  when  he  was  seventy-five,  he 
could  never  resist  the  temptation  to  make  his  work  auto- 
biographical. In  Vivian  Grey  we  find  Mrs.  Lorraine  say- 
ing to  the  hero,  '  ^  Shrined  in  the  secret  chamber  of  your 
soul  there  is  an  image  before  which  you  bow  down  in 
adoration,  and  that  image  is  yourself";  and  this  first  of 
his  fictions  is  in  many  ways  but  a  chronicle  of  his  own 
political  hopes  and  ambitions. 

Indeed,  like  Lord  Byron,  Disraeli  seemed  always  to 
base  his  stories  on  himself  or  some  other  equally  con- 
crete personage  about  him.  To  those  acquainted  with 
English  and  Continental  history  it  is  no  difficult  task  to 
discover  the  originals  of  those  figures  that  parade  them- 
selves through  his  books.  Vivian  Grey,  Tancred,  and 
Endymion  are  your  ** humble"  servant.  Lord  Beacons- 
field  ;  Julius  von  Aslingen  is  Beau  Brummel,  the  famous 
gentleman  of  fashion;  Mr.  Fitzbloom  is  the  equally 
famous  Sir  Kobert  Peel ;  Lord  Monmouth  is  the  infamous 
Marquis  of  Hertfordshire,  later  given  lasting  infamy  as 
Steyne  in  Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair.  Mr.  Foaming 
Fudge  is  Lord  Brougham,  a  founder  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review;  Mr.  Charlatan  Gas  is  the  English  Prime  Minis- 
ter, George  Canning ;  Stanislaus  Hoax  is  the  widely  read 
English  humorist,  Theodore  Hook,  who  suggested  much 
to  Dickens,  and  who  was  used  by  Thackeray  as  Mr. 
Wagg;  Mr.  Liberal  Snake  is  the  Scottish  geologist,  John 

314 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

McCuUoch;  Mr.  Stucco  is  Mr.  Nash,  the  architect  who 
designed  Haymarket;  Dr.  Mashanx  is  Samuel  Wilber- 
force,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  whose  glibness  of  tongue 
gained  him  the  title  of  '* Soapy  Sam'';  and  Mr.  St. 
Barbe  was  no  other  than  Thackeray,  who  had  no  great 
love  for  this  brilliant,  showy,  and  somewhat  supercilious 
Jew.  It  is  very  evident  that  Disraeli  looked  upon  the 
novel  as  something  more  than  a  mere  literary  instru- 
ment ;  it  was  a  road  roller  used  for  crushing  his  enemies 
or  an  engine  for  smoothing  his  own  pathway  to  higher 
political  honors. 

From  the  standpoint  of  technique  Disraeli  lacks  much 
of  being  among  the  masters  of  English  fiction.  He  pos- 
sesses a  rich  and  erratic  imagination,  and  this  frequently 
leads  him  into  exaggerations  and  pictures  of  Oriental 
opulence  ridiculous  to  Occidental  common  sense.  His 
characters  almost  always  possess  wealth,  vast  influence, 
and  surprising  brilliance,  and  are  generally  as  ambitious 
as — Disraeli.  These  ladies  and  gentlemen  have  no  small 
ability  in  posing,  and  have  a  positive  genius  for  the  the- 
atrical. One  modern  critic  puts  it  well  when  he  says: 
*'He  took  his  reader  into  wondrous  baronial  halls,  filled 
with  wondrous  gems,  with  wondrous  tapestries,  with 
wondrous  paintings,  and  introduced  him  to  wondrous 
dukes  and  duchesses,  looking  out  from  wondrous  dark 
orbs,  and  breathing  through  almond-shaped  nostrils."* 

His  plots,  almost  without  exception,  are  copiously 
supplied  with  flaws,  to  which  his  undoubted  flashes  of 
vivid  genius  will  not  wholly  blind  us.  Then,  too,  those 
who  know  the  character  and  the  career  of  Disraeli  can 
not  rid  themselves  of  the  unpleasant  idea  that  he  is 

4  Tuckerman :     A  History  of  English  Prose  Fiction,  p.  293. 

315 


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constantly  talking  about  himself.  In  short,  these  books 
are  the  dreams  of  an  inordinately  ambitious  and  almost 
offensively  egotistical  man,  and  not  all  the  brilliancy  and 
the  interest  in  historical  characters  can  wholly  compen- 
sate for  this  element. 

In  two  essentials  of  the  novel — characterization  and 
literary  style — Disraeli  must  be  acknowledged  as  of  far 
more  than  average  talent.  Even  his  youthful  Vivian 
Grey  is  admirable  in  its  epigrammatic  statements,  its 
vivacity,  its  vigor,  and  its  audacity.  He  possessed  the 
faculty  of  mingling  romantic  adventures,  political  real- 
ism, and  cynical  society  pictures,  and  he  did  it  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  hold  our  interest.  There  is,  moreover,  a 
certain  piquancy  in  the  audacious,  slap-dash,  literary 
criticisms  which  the  assurance  of  his  youth  and  of  his 
race  allowed  him  to  sprinkle  throughout  the  pages. 

'*  'Poor  Washington  Irving!'  said  Vivian,  writing,  'I 
knew  him  well.     He  always  slept  at  dinner.' 

**  *How  delightful!  I  should  have  so  liked  to  have 
seen  him!  He  seems  quite  forgotten  now  in  England. 
How  came  we  to  talk  of  him  ? ' 

** 'Forgotten!  Oh!  he  spoilt  his  elegant  talents  in 
writing  German  and  Italian  twaddle  with  the  rawness  of 
a  Yankee.'  " 

Contarini  Fleming,  a  *' psychological  romance" 
(1832),  compelled  English  and  Continental  readers  to 
recognize  the  peculiar  genius  of  the  young  writer. 
Beckford,  the  famous  author  of  VatheJc,  in  the  early 
years  of  the  century,  and  Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  at  the 
close  of  the  century,  granted  it  high  praise;  while 
Goethe  and  Heine  thought  it  displayed  great  power. 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Like  Vivian  Grey,  it  lacks  a  sustained  plot;  it  too  fre- 
quently reminds  one  of  a  loosely  connected  series  of 
episodes  or  pictures,  each  pleasing  enough,  perhaps,  in 
itself,  but  not  carrying  affairs  forward  to  any  noticeable 
degree.  Here  again  we  come  upon  Disraeli's  idealized 
portrait  of  himself — a  boy  imaginative,  brave,  and  am- 
bitious, who  grows  up  to  become  a  prominent  figure  in 
political  life.  It  is  the  dream  of  the  young  Jew  long- 
ing for  a  position  of  power  among  the  rulers  of  the  land. 
**My  imaginary  deeds  of  conquest,"  exclaims  the  hero, 
'*my  heroic  aspirations,  my  long-dazzling  dreams  of  fan- 
ciful adventure  were,  perhaps,  the  sources  of  ideal  ac- 
tion; that  stream  of  eloquent  and  choice  expression  that 
seemed  ever  flowing  in  my  ear  was  probably  intended 
to  be  directed  in  a  different  channel  than  human  as- 
semblies, and  might  melt  or  kindle  the  passions  of  man- 
kind in  silence." 

The  passionate  love  story,  Henrietta  Temple  (1836), 
is  unique  among  Disraeli's  works,  in  that  it  may  be 
Disraeli's  own  love  romance,  that  its  characters  are 
fictitious,  and  that  it  has  a  happy  ending.  Fer- 
dinand Armine,  expecting  to  inherit  a  fortune  from 
his  grandfather,  becomes  heavily  involved  in  debt, 
and  then  is  startled  into  a  painful  consciousness 
of  the  fact  by  the  fortune's  being  left  to  his  cousin, 
Katherine  Grandison.  He  becomes  engaged  to  her, 
but  about  the  same  time  falls  wildly  in  love  with 
Henrietta  Temple,  and  is  soon  engaged  to  her  also.  The 
duplicity  is  discovered;  Ferdinand  and  Henrietta  fall 
ill  with  brain  fever,  and  Katherine  nurses  him  back  to 
health.  Henrietta  goes  to  Italy,  and  becomes  engaged 
to  Lord  Montfort.     Henrietta  and  Montfort  having  re- 

317 


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turned  to  England,  meet  frequently  with  Ferdinand 
and  Miss  Grandison,  and  fortunately  for  all  concerned, 
Lord  Montfort  and  Katherine  Grandison  develop  a  pas-i 
sion  for  each  other,  and  Armine  is  left  free  to  marry ^ 
Henrietta,  whose  father,  it  should  be  mentioned,  had 
recently  become  heir  to  a  great  fortune.  All  this  may 
appear  very  silly  to  modern  readers,  and,  judging  by 
Disraeli's  mocking  tone,  he  must  have  had  the  same 
opinion;  but  the  reading  public  of  the  thirties  and 
forties  was  quite  captivated  by  the  romance. 

In  1844,  with  the  publication  of  Coningshy,  Dis- 
raeli's work  developed  a  somewhat  deeper  tendency. 
This  book  and  its  successors,  Sybil  and  Tancred,  sup- 
posedly written  to  aid  the  ** Young  England"  party, 
are  really  strong  pieces  of  political  fiction;  but  still  the 
inevitable  Disraeli  thrusts  himself  before  us,  and  our 
confidence  in  the  philanthropic  purpose  of  the  stories  is 
lost.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  characters  in  these  books, 
as  in  most  of  his  works,  are  undeniably  striking,  even  if 
theatrical;  while  the  language,  too  rhetorical,  like  Bui- 
wer-Lytton's,  is  vivid,  and  at  times  eloquent. 

Tancred  appeared  in  1847.  There  was  necessarily  a 
pause  after  this  in  Disraeli's  literary  career.  He  was 
reaping  the  harvest  of  his  literary  plans,  and  was  com- 
pelling homage  from  a  Parliament  and  a  people  who  a 
few  years  before  openly  despised  him.  At  length,  how- 
ever, after  he  had  supped  his  fill  of  the  sweets  and  sours 
of  public  service,  he  returned  in  1870  to  his  first  love, 
and  produced  Lothair.  Here,  as  in  its  successor,  Endym- 
ion  (1880),  is  the  same  rather  coarse  admiration  for 
riches  and  the  attendant  luxuries.  The  furnishings  of 
the  ** magnificent"  mansions  scarcely  condescend  to  silks 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

and  satins;  while  nectar  and  ambrosia  apparently  take 
the  place  of  wine  and  cake.  Here,  too,  are  the  same 
satires  on  prominent  personages  of  the  day,  and  the 
same  personal  touches  which  readers  had  learned  to  ex- 
pect in  his  earlier  stories. 

A  man  of  positive  genius  along  some  lines,  brilliant, 
witty,  capable  of  splendid  irony  and  satire,  possessed 
of  a  ready  and  vivacious  pen,  a  portrayer  of  some 
virile  characters,  Disraeli  was  yet  so  full  of  his  own 
personal  ambition  and  so  imbued  with  regard  for  his 
own  thoughts  that  he  could  not  see  clearly  motives  and 
actions  unconcerned  with  his  own  immediate  activities. 
Then,  too,  a  racial  cynicism  deterred  him  from  taking 
the  beings  of  his  own  creation  with  that  seriousness 
which  made  the  much  less  brilliant  Jane  Austen  a  mov- 
ing force  in  English  literature.  He  stands  as  a  conspic- 
uous example  of  those  defects  which  thoroughly  self -cen- 
tered individuality  inevitably  displays. 

CHARLES   DICKENS 

Charles  Dickens  (1812-1870)  was  a  man  of  just  as 
great  individuality  as  Disraeli;  but  what  a  minute  por- 
tion of  it  was  self-centered!  True,  he  expressed  with 
childlike  frankness  the  pleasure  he  found  in  the  ap- 
plause and  the  material  rewards  that  came  to  him  so 
liberally;  but  how  heartily  he  entered  into  the  desires 
and  ambitions  of  mankind,  how  he  suffered  with  the 
afflicted,  what  large  sympathy  was  his !  His  personality 
penetrated  to  the  innermost  soul,  not  only  of  his  own 
people,  but  of  a  half  score  of  other  nations  as  well. 
Surely  his  understanding  of  humanity  was  of  a  uni- 
versal character.     Few  men's  names  have  more  often 

319 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

been  upon  the  lips  of  English-speaking  nations,  and 
none  pronounced  with  more  affection.  His  very  de- 
fects, clearly  recognized  as  they  are  in  this  day,  were 
amiable ;  his  faults  leaned  toward  virtue. 

His  early  training  was  severe.  In  boyhood  he  learned 
life  not  so  much  from  books  as  from  bitter  experience. 
In  young  manhood  the  clash  of  city  life  and  the  unre- 
mitting demands  of  poverty  were  his  teachers.  His 
courses  in  rhetoric  and  belles-lettres  amounted  to  noth- 
ing ;  he  gained  the  power  of  expression  under  conditions 
that  would  have  bewildered  the  talents  of  a  lesser  gen- 
ius. Hear  his  own  words:  **I  have  often  transcribed 
for  the  printer  from  my  shorthand  notes  important 
public  speeches  in  which  the  strictest  accuracy  was 
required,  and  a  mistake  in  which  would  have  been  to  a 
young  man  severely  compromising,  writing  on  the  palm 
of  my  hand  by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern  in  a  post- 
chaise  and  four,  galloping  through  a  wild  country  and 
through  the  dead  of  night,  at  the  then  surprising  rate 
of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  .  .  .  Eetuming  home  from 
excited  political  meetings  in  the  country  to  the  waiting 
press  in  London,  I  do  verily  believe  I  have  been  upset 
in  almost  every  description  of  vehicle  known  in  this 
country.  I  have  been  in  my  time  belated  in  miry  by- 
roads, toward  the  small  hours,  forty  or  fifty  miles  from 
London,  in  a  wheelless  carriage  with  exhausted  horses 
and  drunken  post-boys,  and  have  got  back  in  time  to  be 
received  with  never-forgotten  compliments. ' ' 

Such  a  training  led  to  an  almost  excessive  animation 
in  his  expression.  His  books  were  written  rapidly,  and, 
like  his  life,  impress  one  with  the  sense  of  an  almost 
strained  whirl  of  activity  and  excitement.     This  train- 

320 


NINETEENTH-CENTUEY  FICTION 

ing,  it  may  at  once  be  confessed,  was  not  conducive  to 
the  utmost  refinement  and  delicacy  of  shading  in  por- 
traying emotions  and  situations,  and  we  should  not  be 
surprised,  therefore,  to  find  his  sentiment  exaggerated 
at  times  almost  into  sentimentality,  and  his  humor  so 
broad  as  to  verge  often  on  the  farcical.  But  it  is 
equally  true  that  those  traits  decidedly  pleased  his  day, 
which  still  lingered  under  the  sunshine  of  Romanticism, 
and  that  even  in  our  own  somewhat  calmer  era  his  use 
of  the  larger  elemental  emotions,  his  intense  convic- 
tions, and  his  enthusiastic  belief  in  the  goodness  of 
mankind  are  still  most  effective.  He  was  naturally  an 
actor;  he  saw  the  dramatic  possibilities  in  all  that  he 
observed;  his  imagination  overwhelmed  his  judgment; 
and  under  the  stress  of  his  heated  fancy,  his  views  of 
motives,  emotions,  and  deeds  amounted  virtually  to 
hallucinations. 

It  is  very  doubtful  whether  in  these  particulars  he 
improved  with  age ;  many  critics  have  declared  his  ear- 
lier books  his  best.  Perhaps  he  went  to  his  work  with 
preconceived  notions,  and  no  statement  of  changed  con- 
ditions could  shake  these  stubborn  convictions.  He 
came  to  America  in  1842  with  settled  ideas  as  to  the 
defects  in  our  civic  and  social  life,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible for  the  literary  results — American  Notes  and  Mar- 
tin Chuzzlewit — ^to  be  other  than  prejudiced  and  unfair. 
Such  a  man,  however,  is  a  mighty  force  in  times  when 
reforms  are  crying  for  champions,  and  his  whole-hearted 
work  for  the  oppressed  in  Great  Britain  deserved  and 
obtained  the  gratitude  of  the  English  nation.  That  he 
was  wrong  in  some  of  his  descriptions  of  British  prison 
life,  slum  conditions,  court  injustice,  and  official  red  tape 
21  321 


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and  tyranny  is  not  to  be  doubted ;  but  to  decide  that  the 
exaggeration  was  excessive,  would  be  a  most  unwar- 
ranted conclusion.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with  Lon- 
don of  the  twentieth  century  can  with  but  little  diffi- 
culty point  out  the  '  *  creatures  that  once  were  men, ' '  and 
can  find  suffering  and  cruelty  far  more  bitter  than  any 
pictured  by  Charles  Dickens. 

Two  writers,  now  almost  entirely  unknown,  largely 
influenced  the  earlier  writings  of  Dickens.  Theodore 
Hook,  a  careless,  quick,  but  often  sharp  delineator  of 
humorous  characters,  was,  for  about  twenty  years  (1820- 
1840)  the  joker  of  London  literary  circles.  He  observed 
society  with  a  keen  eye,  and  in  Sayings  and  Doings 
(1824-1830)  he  exposed  with  merciless  frankness  and 
wit  the  mean  trickery,  duplicity,  and  blackmailing  of 
the  societies  with  which  he  was  acquainted.  Dickens 
admired  this  audacious  fellow's  manner  of  putting 
things,  and  evidently  enjoyed  his  hearty,  easily  under- 
stood humor  and  broad  characterizations.  Pierce  Egan, 
once  famous  in  both  England  and  America,  began  in 
July,  1821,  the  publication  in  monthly  instalments  of 
Life  in  London;  or  the  Day  and  Night  Scenes  of  Jerry 
Hawthorn^  Esq. — a  series  which  was  illustrated  by 
Cruikshank,  then  at  his  best,  and  which  had  a  host  of 
hearty  readers.  The  London  cockneys  and  their  ridicu- 
lous dialect  introduced  into  these  sketches  were  the  very 
same  as  those  used  later  by  Dickens  with  such  masterly 
effects.  Corinthian  Tom  and  Bob  Logic,  an  Oxford 
man,  go  with  Jerry  into  the  haunts  of  London's  various 
planes  of  society,  and  the  vigorous  scenes  resulting  are 
full  of  that  hearty  humor  and  animation  which  were 
later    to    be    so    characteristic    of    Boz.     That    Egan's 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

stories 'had  dramatic  possibilities  was  evidenced  by  their 
highly  successful  staging  in  London  and  New  York, 
and  this  quality,  too,  must  have  appealed  to  Dickens. 
In  1828  Egan  closed  the  series  with  The  Finish  of  the 
Achentures  of  Tom,  Jerry,  and  Logic,  in  which  some  of 
the  characters  are  violently  killed,  some  die  in  wretched- 
ness, while  Jerry,  now  reformed,  marries  a  country 
belle,  and  becomes  a  model  Justice  of  the  Peace.  Thus 
Dickens  fed  his  youthful  genius  upon  works  so  crude 
in  some  ways  that  modem  criticism  would  have  little 
more  than  contempt  for  them.  But  this  is  not  to  be 
placed  to  Dickens's  discredit.  Did  not  Shakespeare  use 
in  the  same  manner  the  poor  translations  of  Italian 
romances — with  some  rather  commendable  differences 
between  the  sources  and  the  results? 

In  April,  1836,  while  Egan  was  in  the  midst  of  his 
success,  Dickens  published  the  first  number  of  the  Pick- 
wick Papers — with  what  success  all  the  world  knows. 
As  first  written,  these  sketches  were  intended  as  a  sort 
of  commentary  on  Robert  Seymour's  cockney  sporting 
plates;  but  Seymour  died  soon  after  the  first  number 
appeared,  and  Dickens,  changing  his  plan,  wrote  with 
far  more  freedom  and  charm.  The  influence  of  Egan 
in  this  work  is  not  to  be  denied.  Egan's  papers  had 
told  of  a  certain  fat  fellow,  undoubtedly  a  literary  fore- 
father of  Mr.  Pickwick;  Pickwick  itself  is  the  name  of 
a  place  used  by  Egan ;  some  adventures  of  Dickens's  hero 
are  similar  to  those  of  Egan's  Skinflint;  the  rural  scenes 
associated  with  Squire  Hawthorn  were  evidently  helpful 
to  the  greater  writer. 

Egan  and  Hook,  however,  used  the  same  themes  and 
characters  over  and  over;  their  inventive  ability  was 

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strictly  limited.  Charles  Dickens  had  an  inexhaustible 
store  of  figures  and  incidents;  Pickwick  Papers  alone 
possesses  a  host  of  characters  and  a  half  hundred  dis- 
tinctly different  situations.  Moreover,  unlike  Hook  and 
Egan,  Dickens  had  a  sympathy  too  large  for  mere 
ridicule  of  the  lower  classes ;  he  might  laugh  with  them, 
but  scarcely  ever  at  them.  Indeed,  Pickwick  Papers 
marks  a  turning  point  in  English  fiction ;  for  it  was  one 
of  the  first  works  to  emphasize  most  clearly  humanitari- 
anism  in  the  novel.  There  was  so  much  in  society, 
church,  and  law  in  need  of  a  change  from  harsh  rigidity 
to  liberal  sympathy,  and  the  novel  under  Dickens  ex- 
pressed more  and  more  clearly  the  call  of  the  times  for 
a  larger  humanity  in  all  things. 

The  philanthropic  tendency  in  fiction  had  been 
checked  by  Scott,  who  had  a  poor  opinion  of  the  ethical 
value  of  the  novel ;  but  in  the  days  of  Charles  Dickens  it 
returned  to  its  own  with  immense  power.  In  1830  Bul- 
wer-Lytton  had  pointed  out  in  Paul  Clifford  that  the 
prisons  were  crime-productive;  Mrs.  Gaskell  showed 
the  miserable  conditions  of  the  lower  laborers;  other 
writers  of  less  genius  undertook  the  same  investigations ; 
and,  in  the  three  decades  between  1830  and  1860  a  great 
number  of  treatises  of  this  kind  were  produced.  This 
was  the  sort  of  thing  very  close  to  the  heart  of  Dickens ; 
the  Gothic,  with  all  its  blood-curdling  ghosts  was  out- 
Gothiced  by  his  accounts  of  prison  life.  Modern  Eng- 
land, as  pictured  by  his  pen,  was  more  exciting  than 
the  feudal  realms  of  old ;  a  mob  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury was  proved  more  interesting  than  a  battle  of  an- 
cient knights;  and  a  dirty  tenement  in  a  fever-stricken 
slum  became  more  horrible  than  a  castle  dungeon  of 

324 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

yore.     Scott  spoke  from  history;  Dickens  spoke  from 
what  he  considered  accurate,  trustworthy  observation. 

The  trustworthiness  of  it,  however,  was  denied  by 
many  of  his  contemporaries.  Carlyle  and  other  stu- 
dents of  social  life,  after  rather  close  investigation,  de- 
clared that  in  most  cases  the  conditions  were  greatly 
exaggerated  by  this  novelist,  and  that  in  many  instances 
the  conditions  described  had  ceased  to  exist  many  years 
before.  In  short,  Dickens,  thinking  too  often  of  the 
bitter  days  of  his  childhood,  had  failed  to  notice  the  im- 
provements that  had  been  quietly  progressing  through- [/ 
out  the  days  of  his  manhood,  and  thus,  unintentionally 
no  doubt,  he  has  left  impressions,  especially  among 
Americans  and  foreign  readers,  that  are  undeniably 
erroneous.  He  may  have  been  wrong  in  many  of  his 
premises;  but  these  premises  granted,  he  constructs  a 
story  wonderful  in  its  detailed  effectiveness.  His  exag- 
gerations doubtless  did  no  harm,  while  his  contagious 
sympathy  may  have  given  fresh  impetus  to  the  good 
work  then  in  progress.  He  had  small  faith  in  the  power 
of  Parliament  to  effect  reforms;  rather  his  hope  was 
based  upon  the  awakening  of  the  sympathy  and  indigna- 
tion of  the  British  public,  and  he  wrote  from  a  heart 
burning  with  zeal  created  by  his  own  early  experiences 
and  resulting  convictions. 

How  did  he  infuse  his  novels  with  their  immense 
power?  In  the  first  place,  there  was,  seemingly,  no  , 
limit  to  his  ability  in  invention.  There  are  more  inci- 
dents in  any  one  of  his  novels  than  in  a  half-dozen 
works  produced  by  some  present-day  novelists.  Nor 
are  these  episodes  and  situations  loosely  put  together; 
each,  distinctly  visualized  as  it  is,  seems  a  natural  part 

325 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

of  the  lengthy  and  well-filled  whole.  His  inventiveness 
in  characterization  is  no  less  remarkable.  He  created 
hundreds  of  figures  and  each  is  as  distinct,  as  lovable, 
or  as  hateful  as  the  folk  who  pass  us  daily.  He  saw  the 
details  of  his  beings — their  forms  and  natures — with 
such  distinctness  that  critics  have  sometimes  declared 
the  personages  who  joy  and  sorrow  throughout  his  pages 
to  be  nothing  short  of  caricatures.  Surely  this  is  un- 
just. Pickwicks,  Samuel  Wellers,  Mrs.  Gamps  and  Lit- 
tle Nells  still  walk  the  streets  of  not  only  London,  but 
New  York,  and  Paris,  and  all  the  other  vast  cities  of 
the  modern  world.  Dickens's  actor-instinct,  his  love  of 
the  dramatic  and  the  theatrical,  may  have  tempted  him 
at  times  to  enlarge  on  certain  traits;  but  in  the  main 
these  things  are  very  real,  very  human,  and  very  recog- 
nizable. 

Again,  Dickens  frankly  appealed  to  the  primal  emo- 
tions of  mankind — terror,  humor,  sorrow,  joy — and  he 
did  it  with  an  openness  that  has  by  no  means  pleased 
the  stricter  critics;  and  yet  those  who  refuse  to  see  the 
best  art  in  his  use  of  these  elements  are  compelled  to 
confess  that  they  touch  the  soul  and  touch  it  deeply. 
Thackeray  was  afraid  of  such  free  use  of  emotion,  and 
in  public  might  have  expressed  cynical  hints  about  senti- 
mentality. Note,  however,  this  little  incident.  A  lady 
entering  Thackeray's  study  found  him  in  tears. 

'* Little  Nell  is  dead,"  he  said  brokenly. 

'  *  Little  Nell  ? "  the  lady  repeated. 

*'Yes,  Little  Nell,"  was  the  answer,  ''she  is  dead — 
IVe  just  been  reading  it."  On  his  desk  lay  an  open 
copy  of  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop, 

The  British  public  of  Dickens'  and  Thackeray's  day 
326 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

had  strong  nerves,  and  the  appeal  could  seldom  be  too 
violent.  Even  to-day,  while  the  author's  premeditated 
sentiment  may  no  longer  cause  such  heart-rending  sor- 
row, there  is  a  poetic  quality  in  his  pathos  that  un- 
doubtedly appeals  to  our  sense  of  the  beautiful.  Again 
while  his  humor  may  not  have  that  subtleness  so  much 
desired  in  these  later  years,  the  hearty  British  of  the 
middle  nineteenth  century  loved  it  for  its  very  broad- 
ness. And,  with  all  their  broadness  and  simplicity,  such 
scenes  as  Samuel  Weller's  composition  of  his  '*walen- 
tine''  or  Mr.  Micawber's  waiting  in  the  midst  of  his 
numerous  household  for  something  to  *'tum  up"  are 
true  and  charmingly  human. 

It  is  this  touch  of  the  human  on  his  every  page  that 
has  saved  Dickens.  His  characters  may  have  the  de- 
fect of  Ben  Jonson's  people — they  are  often  charac- 
ters of  one  ** humor''  or  trait,  and  one  only.  He  may 
have  too  great  a  love  for  the  eccentric  in  humanity. 
Micawber,  the  personification  of  eternal  hopefulness  and 
eternal  poverty,  Pecksniff,  the  personification  of  essen- 
tial hypocrisy,  Samuel  Weller,  the  personification  of  un- 
improvable blockheadedness,  may  not  be  the  average 
men  of  many  traits  and  various  hobbies  we  meet  in  our 
walks  about  town;  but  they  are  decidedly  alive,  and,  if 
we  have  never  met  their  kind,  we  are  certainly  sorry 
we  have  not.  Dickens  may  have  met  them ;  to  the  very 
last  he  wrote  with  the  air  of  a  reporter  rather  than  as  a 
creator.  And  as  a  reporter,  he  improved  upon  most 
realists  by  describing  the  lights,  as  well  as  the  shadows, 
of  this  life;  too  many  authors  who  pride  themselves 
upon  their  accurate  photographic  art  capture  nothing 
but  the  wretchedness  and  the  depravity  of  mankind. 

327 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

What  a  mingling  we  find,  for  instance,  in  Oliver  Twist, 
which  may  be  taken  as  the  type  of  most  of  his  work, — 
a  mingling  of  humor,  tragedy,  vivid  characterization, 
social  pictures,  exposures  of  wrongs,  what  not ! 

Some  novelists  are  realists  because,  at  bottom,  they 
are  really  doubters  or  cynics.  Charles  Dickens  is  an 
idealist;  the  savage  distrust  of  Swift  and  the  cynicism 
of  Sterne  were  unknown  to  him;  like  Fielding,  his  be- 
lief in  human  kind  was  whole-hearted,  boundless.  He 
could  well  afford  to  be  unreservedly  humorous ;  a  divine 
faith  in  the  ultimate  victory  of  the  good  and  the  true 
filled  him  with  animated  joy.  It  was  the  same  divine 
faith  in  this  ultimate  victory,  moreover,  that  caused  him 
to  labor  so  unceasingly  in  his  attempt  to  expose  and 
rid  the  earth  of  its  foul  spots.  Your  realist  is  often  in 
grave  danger  of  becoming  a  fatalist;  for  the  distress  of 
man  may  so  impress  him  that  in  despair  he  will  conclude 
that  rebellion  is  futile.  Not  so  with  Charles  Dickens. 
He  had  an  old-fashioned  belief  in  the  innate  goodness 
and  sense  of  the  common  people ;  he  admired  the  hum- 
bler walks  of  life ;  he  despised  lofty  affectations,  as  well 
as  all  other  forms  of  hypocrisy;  and  despite  his  intense 
realization  and  visualization  of  his  scenes  and  characters, 
he  portrayed  lowly  life  without  the  vulgarity  of  Fielding 
or  the  cynicism  of  Sterne. 

Since  he  wrote  so  often  about  the  uncultured,  his 
appeal  is  often  to  them  as  readers.  The  masses  like  to 
hear  about  themselves,  and  find  genuine  pleasure  in 
photographs  of  their  own  daily  work  and  play,  and 
Dickens  answered  this  craving  with  such  pictures  of 
familiar  scenes,  home  life,  city  streets,  shops,  picnics, 
fights,  and  sports  as  English  literature  had  never  before 

328 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

possessed.  Moreover,  he  was  old-fashioned  enough  to 
believe  in  heroes,  and,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
** average  reader,"  at  least  one  of  the  species  is  present 
in  every  story  he  wrote.  Lastly,  his  belief  in  the  neces- 
sity of  a  happy  ending  was  so  settled  that  even  the  most 
admiring  of  his  critics  must  regret  that  he  persistently 
perverted  some  natural  tragedies  into  slightly  strained, 
though  enjoyable,  comedies. 

The  influence  of  Charles  Dickens  can  not  even  ap- 
proximately be  measured.  He  decreased  for  a  space  the 
rigor  of  realism;  he  taught  a  more  genial  mingling  of 
the  sweets  and  bitters  of  life ;  he  displayed  an  ability  in 
delineation  of  character  so  remarkable  that  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  some  of  the  beings  he  created  will  ever  be 
forgotten;  he  described  the  humble  life  of  his  nation 
in  a  manner  not  yet  surpassed  by  any  British  writer; 
he  expressed  a  faith  in  humanity,  an  understanding,  a 
sympathy,  an  idealism  that  have  made  his  name  syn- 
onymous with  good  fellowship,  kindliness  of  heart,  mu- 
tual helpfulness,  and  brotherly  love. 

THACKERAY 

A  genius  may  attract  or  repel  other  geniuses;  in 
either  case  he  is  an  influence.  Thackeray  (1811-1862) 
apparently  had  little  liking  for  Scott's  hero  worship  and 
romanticism,  and  even  burlesqued  the  stirring  adven- 
tures depicted  by  Sir  Walter ;  but  nevertheless,  he  owed 
much,  both  directly  and  indirectly,  to  Scott.  The  lat- 
ter had  made  the  way  clear  for  future  historical  novel- 
ists; his  merits  could  be  imitated  and  his  mistakes 
avoided ;  the  opponents  of  his  school  could  use  him  as  a 
sort  of  landmark  to  aid  them  in  keeping  as  far  as  possi- 

329 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ble  from  his  domain  and  influence.  Thackeray  may 
thus  have  used  him.  Henry  Esmond  (1852),  moreover, 
owes  much  to  Dumas,  and  Dumas  to  Scott,  and  thus, 
unconsciously  he  paid  homage  to  the  borderman.  Du- 
mas, as  well  as  Scott,  used  imaginary  characters  with  a 
historic  background,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  add  the 
** theatricals"  if  apparently  helpful;  but  Thackeray  re- 
fused to  give  stage  effects  to  his  histories,  and,  omitting 
the  antique  words,  the  ** heroics"  and  the  strange  de- 
scriptions of  stranger  castles,  he  made  his  people  of 
yore  live  their  pleasant  or  sordid  life  as  probably  they 
did  live  it.  The  result  is  that  Henry  Esmond  is  doubt- 
less the  best  historical  English  novel  since  the  days  of 
Scott.  It  reproduces  the  atmosphere  of  a  day  that  is 
past;  its  characters  are  lifelike  and  fit  their  time  and 
environment;  even  their  language  sounds  like  that  of 
their  contemporaries,  Addison  and  Steele. 

All  this  was  gained  through  Thackeray's  insistence 
on  truth.  He,  like  Carlyle,  found  that  Dickens's  prisons 
and  almshouses  were  not  true  to  those  actually  existing, 
and  he  therefore  refused  to  consider  this  as  realism. 
Always  possessing  a  touch  of  the  aristocratic,  just  as 
Dickens  did  of  the  democratic,  he  disliked  exaggeration 
of  any  sort,  and,  having  the  critical  as  well  as  the  creative 
genius,  he  exposed  rather  mercilessly  in  his  younger 
days  the  shallowness,  artificiality,  and  above  all,  the 
lack  of  truth  in  Scott,  Bulwer-Lytton,  G.  P.  R.  James, 
Disraeli,  and  even  his  friend  Lever.  In  those  early 
years  he  wrote  with  the  tone  of  the  witty  man-of-the- 
world,  somewhat  like  the  self-composed,  fashionable 
clubman,  who  is  not  going  to  take  anything — including 
himself — ^too  seriously.     Extremely  sane  in  all  things, 

330 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

not  possessed  of  the  reforming  zeal  so  apparent  in  Dick- 
ens, endowed  with  a  personality  that  would  shine 
through  his  work  in  spite  of  his  apparent  efforts  not  to 
seem  very  much  interested  in  his  theme,  gifted  with  a 
flexible  style  that  adapted  itself  admirably  to  every 
variation  of  his  mood,  he  wrote  even  in  that  apprentice- 
ship period  with  a  finish,  a  facility,  and  a  pleasantness 
that  to  this  day  make  such  work  as  The  Ravenswing  and 
Memorials  of  Gormandizing  exceedingly  enjoyable  read- 
ing. At  that  time  also  he  showed  in  such  pieces  as 
Barry  Lyndon,  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond  and  the 
Book  of  Snobs  some  masterly  character  sketches. 

All  this  time,  however,  Thackeray  was  not  taking  him- 
self and  his  art  seriously  enough.  The  Book  of  Snobs 
and  Yellowplush  Papers  are  delightful  things  of  their 
kind;  but  their  kind  was  by  no  means  the  best  that 
Thackeray  could  do.  In  January,  1847,  the  first  num- 
ber of  Vanity  Fair  appeared,  and  its  surprising  success 
suddenly  caused  the  novelist  to  realize  his  power  and  its 
attendant  responsibilities.  Never  again  did  he  return 
to  the  lighter  supercilious  tone;  from  the  final  number 
of  Vanity  Fair  through  Esmond  (1852),  The  Newcomes 
(1855)  and  The  Virginians  (1859)  he  followed  the 
deeper  and  broader  currents  of  life. 

Thackeray  had  had  a  good  deal  to  say  as  to  how  fic- 
tion should  be  written.  Vanity  Fair  was  his  ideal,  his 
exposition  of  the  rational  methods  to  be  pursued  in  the 
composition  of  a  novel.  He  presented  an  historical 
background,  but  made  no  great  use  of  it.  He  preferred 
to  know,  not  so  much  how  the  campaign  led  up  to  the 
Battle  of  Waterloo,  as  what  was  going  on  in  fashionable 
London  at  the  time.     He  accepted  things  as  they  were, 

331 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

and,  seemingly,  had  no  ethical,  political,  or  educational 
purpose  in  the  story.  He  refused  to  believe  all  little 
boys  angelic,  and  all  English  damsels  amiable.  He  had 
no  Little  Nells;  but  he  did  have — ^most  decidedly — 
Becky  Sharp.  He  had  a  fear  of  heroes;  he  had  not 
come  across  many  of  the  species  during  his  journey  here 
below.  Willian  Dean  Howells,  it  is  said,  was  asked 
by  a  lady  why  he  had  never  pictured  an  ideal  woman. 
'^I  am  waiting  for  the  Lord  to  create  one  first,''  was  the 
novelist's  reply.  Thackeray  evidently  was  of  the  same 
opinion  regarding  heroes.  Since,  therefore,  all  men  are 
not  heroic,  he  portrayed  Rawdon  Crawley.  Indeed 
Thackeray  almost  overdid  the  matter;  one  is  liable  to 
exclaim,  ''What  creature  indeed  can  be  trusted?" 

Yet  apparent  as  are  the  touches  of  cynicism  in  this 
as  well  as  in  any  other  novel  by  Thackeray,  it  would 
be  folly  to  declare  the  ethical  import  absent.  He  was 
disgusted  with  humanity's  eternal  strivings  for  mere 
nothings ;  he  exposed  men  and  women,  not  because  they 
were  always  positively  wicked,  but  because  they  were 
oftentimes  positively  silly.  Osborne  gains  wealth  in 
the  tallow  business,  and  his  son  dies,  and  the  old  man 
remains  a  helpless  wreck.  Dobbin  struggles  for  Amelia, 
and  his  reward  is  her  useless  self.  Becky  Sharp  strives 
with  all  the  power  of  her  keen  but  immoral  wits,  and 
her  gain  is  nothingness.  To  the  mature  and  thoughtful 
this  is  all  very  true,  and  ethically  effective;  but  Vanity 
Fair,  in  its  efforts  to  counteract  the  idealism  of  Scott, 
is,  perhaps,  dangerous — especially  when  seen  on  the 
stage — to  the  young  and  unthinking.  For  Becky  Sharp 
is  brilliant,  and  one  is  liable  to  forget  her  sin  in  her 
wit.     This  is,  in  short,  the  picaresque  in  modem  terms. 

332 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Pendennis  (1849-1850)  is  intended  as  a  nineteenth- 
century  Tom  Jones,  and  does  indeed  possess  much  of  the 
liberality  of  the  optimistic  Fielding.  Evidently  Thack- 
eray was  opposed  to  the  stern  conventionalities  of  the 
society  of  this  era,  and  in  this  story  of  the  young  man 
making  a  fool  of  himself,  first  in  school  and  later  in 
society,  then  going  astray  for  a  while,  and  at  length  re- 
turning to  the  path  of  sobriety  and  common  sense,  the 
novelist  voices  his  protest  against  the  iron-clad  rules 
and  judgments  too  often  laid  down  by  the  sanctified. 
Even  here,  however,  while  perhaps  secretly  defending, 
Thackeray  allows  that  sly  cynicism  to  aid  him  in  making 
his  young  I'ascal  ridiculous.     See  Pendennis  at  school : 

**We  have  mentioned  that  he  exhibited  a  certain  par- 
tiality for  rings,  jewelry,  and  fine  raiment  of  all  sorts; 
and  it  must  be  owned  that  Mr.  Pen,  during  his  time  at 
the  university,  was  rather  a  dressy  man,  and  loved  to 
array  himself  in  splendour.  He  and  his  polite  friends 
would  dress  themselves  out  with  as  much  care  in  order 
to  go  and  dine  at  each  other's  rooms,  as  other  folks 
would  who  were  going  to  enslave  a  mistress.  They  said 
he  used  to  wear  rings  over  his  kid  gloves,  which  he  al- 
ways denies ;  but  what  follies  will  not  youth  perpetrate 
with  its  own  admirable  gravity  and  simplicity?  That 
he  took  perfumed  baths  is  the  truth ;  and  he  used  to  say 
he  took  them  after  meeting  certain  men  of  a  very  low 
set  in  hall.  In  Pen's  second  year,  when  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay  made  her  chief  hit  in  London,  and  scores  of  prints 
were  published  of  her.  Pen  had  one  of  these  hung  in  his 
bedroom,  and  confided  to  the  men  of  his  set  how  awfully, 
how  wildly,  how  madly,  how  passionately,  he  had  loved 
that  woman.     He  showed  them  in  confidence  the  verses 

333 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

that  he  had  written  to  her,  and  his  brow  would  darken, 
his  eyes  roll,  his  chest  heave  with  emotion  as  he  re- 
called that  fatal  period  of  his  life,  and  described  the 
woes  and  agonies  which  he  had  suffered.  The  verses 
were  copied  out,  handed  about,  sneered  at,  admired, 
passed  from  coterie  to  coterie.  There  are  few  things 
which  elevate  a  lad  in  the  estimation  of  his  brother 
boys,  more  than  to  have  a  character  for  a  great  and 
romantic  passion.  Perhaps  there  is  something  noble  in 
it  at  all  times — among  very  young  men,  it  is  considered 
heroic — Pen  was  pronounced  a  tremendous  fellow. 
They  said  he  had  almost  committed  suicide :  that  he  had 
fought  a  duel  with  a  baronet  about  her.  Freshmen 
pointed  him  out  to  each  other.  As  at  the  promenade 
time  4t  two  o'clock  he  swaggered  out  of  college,  sur- 
rounded by  his  cronies,  he  was  famous  to  behold.  He 
was  elaborately  attired.  He  would  ogle  the  ladies  who 
came  to  lionise  the  university,  and  passed  before  him  on 
the  arms  of  happy  gownsmen,  and  give  his  opinion  upon 
their  personal  charms,  or  their  toilettes,  with  the  gravity 
of  a  critic  whose  experience  entitled  him  to  speak  with 
authority.  Men  used  to  say  that  they  had  been  walking 
with  Pendennis,  and  were  as  pleased  to  be  seen  in  his 
company  as  some  of  us  would  if  we  walked  with  a  duke 
down  Pall  Mall.  He  and  the  Proctor  capped  each  other 
as  they  met,  as  if  they  were  rival  powers,  and  the  men 
hardly  knew  which  was  the  greater." 

Unlike  Dickens,  Thackeray  would  not  allow  himself 
to  take  these  foibles  so  seriously  that  he  felt  compelled 
to  rant  at  them;  on  the  contrary,  he  points  out  their 
folly  with  a  condescending  smile,  and  seems  to  whisper 
slyly,  *'Lo,  these  fools."     This  is  the  most  embarrassing 

334 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

and  irritating  form  of  sarcasm ;  to  smile  condescendingly 
upon  a  fool  is  to  make  him  realize  for  the  moment  that 
he  is  a  fool,  and  this  renders  him  dangerous.  For  this 
reason  it  has  frequently  and  emphatically  been  stated 
that  Thackeray  is  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  Swift  in 
irony  and  satire.  Swift,  however,  looked  upon  men  as 
essentially  vicious;  Thackeray  considered  them  simply 
weak  or  foolish.  He  found  commendable  traits  along 
with  their  laziness,  selfishness,  thick-headedness,  or  silli- 
ness. Rawdon  Crawley,  for  instance,  is  an  ignoramus 
lacking  most  moral  principles;  but  his  devotion  to  Re- 
becca shows  him  not  a  devil,  but  a  miserably  deluded 
human  being. 

The  pathos  of  disillusionment  is  a  strong  point  with" 
Thackeray.  This  matter  of  self-deception  and  its  heart- 
rending consequences  furnishes  many  a  bitter  touch 
throughout  his  pages,  and  causes  many  unobservant 
readers  to  consider  some  portions  bitterly  cynical  which 
are  merely  truthful.  **What  a  dignity,"  he  remarks, 
**it  gives  an  old  lady,  that  balance  at  the  banker's! 
How  tenderly  we  look  at  her  faults,  if  she  is  a  relation ! ' ' 

The  narrow  minded,  the  petty,  the  mean  are  found 
in  life,  and  should  therefore  be  found  in  fiction;  but 
the  average  man,  with  the  average  number  of  noble 
qualities  is  to  be  expected  in  both.  He  is  not  quite  so 
conspicuous  in  Vanity  Fair  as  many  readers  would 
wish.  When  Thackeray  turned  back  to  still  earlier 
days  and  in  his  Esmo7id  (1852),  The  Virginians  (1858- 
59),  and  The  Newcomes  (1854-55)  wrote  something 
more  nearly  like  the  typical  historical  novels,  he  allowed 
himself  a  little  more  sentiment,  more  genuine  and  seri- 
ous emotion,  and  more  beauties  in  the  natures  of  his 

335 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

characters.  Here  is  more  kindliness,  here  a  refreshing 
belief  in  humanity;  mingled  with  human  weaknesses 
are  those  qualities  that  constitute  all-round  manliness. 
These  books  of  his  maturer  years  are  more  true  to  life 
and  humanity  than  are  his  earlier  stories.  These  char- 
acters act  and  speak  more  nearly  as  we  should  ex- 
pect, because  their  words  and  deeds  are  based  on  traits 
of  character  for  which  Thackeray's  statements  and  de- 
scriptions have  fully  prepared  us.  Much  as  he  disliked 
the  theatrical,  Thackeray,  like  Dickens,  had  the  actor's 
instinct  in  that  he  could  throw  himself  into  the  person- 
ality of  his  creatures — a  snob  in  the  Book  of  Snobs,  an 
adventurer  in  Barry  Lyndon,  or  an  eighteenth-century 
gentleman  in  Esmond,  It  is  this  power  of  his  person- 
ality that  has  made  the  beings  he  created  permanent 
dwellers  in  the  literary  halls  of  fame. 

Yet  how  curiously  at  times  he  treats  these  characters. 
His  genius,  like  that  of  Eabelais  and  Sterne,  delights  in 
little  surprising  twists  and  cranks,  and  a  certain  aristo- 
cratic shyness  or  reserve  emphasizes  at  least  one  of  these 
twists.  How  often  he  assumes,  or  tries  to  assume,  the 
guise  of  an  impersonal  manipulator  entirely  outside  of 
the  story,  commenting  with  mock  carelessness  or  cyni- 
cism upon  the  deeds  and  feelings  of  his  characters — 
like  a  showman  with  an  air  of  condescension  showing 
off  his  puppets  for  the  edification,  not  of  himself,  but  of 
the  public.  And  yet,  when  he  chooses,  how  solemn  he 
can  become !  The  death  scene  of  Colonel  Newcome  has 
scarcely  been  surpassed  in  English  literature. 

Plot  is  by  no  means  Thackeray's  forte.  He  takes  his 
time  about  progressing  with  the  story;  he  kills  off  peo- 
ple too  conveniently,  and  sometimes  forgets  about  it 

336 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

and  brings  them  back  to  life.  He  exhibits  his  charac- 
ters, and,  like  the  aforementioned  showman,  often  steps 
out  before  the  audience  to  deliver  a  *  4ecturette ' '  upon 
them.  Either  lacking  the  skill  of  inventing  incidents, 
or  not  having  a  taste  for  them,  he  uses  conversation 
where  Dickens  uses  action.  His  chapters  are  frequently 
clever  and  indeed  strong  pictures  of  moments  in  life; 
but  they  just  as  frequently  have  no  close  and  logical 
connection  with  their  predecessors  or  successors.  This 
is  in  part  due  to  Thackeray's  custom  of  writing  the 
stories  in  monthly  instalments  for  magazines ;  for  in  the 
only  novel  of  his  wholly  finished  before  published, 
Henry  Esmond,  we  have  a  plot  admirable  in  its  unity 
and  apparent  possibility. 

It  may  be  well  for  us  to  examine  for  a  moment  this 
frequently  praised  novel,  Henry  Esmond,  and  make 
some  brief  comparisons  between  it  and  other  works  by 
Thackeray.  Not  so  filled  with  action  and  dramatic  mo- 
ments as  Vanity  Fair,  nor  possessing  such  a  fascinating 
figure  as  Becky  Sharp,  it,  nevertheless,  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view,  remains  one  of  the  greater  novels  of  all 
literature.  As  has  been  intimated,  Thackeray  had  come 
into  the  realm  of  true  fiction  by  the  pathway  of  satire. 
When  we  look  over  the  writings  of  his  younger  days  we 
easily  discover  that  the  seamy  rather  than  the  normal 
side  of  social  life  is  revealed,  and  though  the  satire — 
often  playful  and  sometimes  mingled  with  pity,  as  it 
is — is  not  used  as  by  Le  Sage,  for  creating  piquancy  or 
as  by  Swift  for  a  merciless  flaying  of  all  mankind,  it  is 
satire,  nevertheless,  and  in  so  far  it  prevents  Thackeray 
from  presenting  a  thoroughly  true,  broad,  and  whole- 
some picture  of  humanity.  Through  such  works  as  the 
22  337 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Deuceace  story,  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond^  and 
Barry  Lyndon,  the  author  advanced  to  Vanity  Fair; 
but  even  here,  in  this  undoubted  masterpiece,  we  are  not 
given  a  normal  picture;  for  surely  the  social  structure 
of  England  has  never  consisted  of  Becky  Sharp  and  her 
ilk. 

This  predilection  toward  exposing  the  scamps  and 
frauds  of  life,  a  predilection  doubtless  caused  in  part 
by  Thackeray's  early  financial  losses,  continued  through- 
out Vanity  Fair;  but  the  immense  success  of  this  work 
could  not  but  have  an  effect  upon  the  novelist's  view  of 
mankind,  and  when  we  come  to  Esmond  we  find  the 
tinge  of  bitterness  or  sarcasm  has  largely  disappeared. 
In  the  opinion  of  many  critics  Vanity  Fair  is  his  master- 
piece; as  a  comedy  of  manners  of  contemporary  life  it 
has  been  spoken  of  as  the  greatest  work  since  Tom  Jones, 
But,  as  indicated  above,  it  is  not  broad  enough.  The 
group  of  hypocrites  and  rascals  here  assembled  do  not 
represent  an  average  group  from  society.  Here  in- 
deed are  intensity,  sharply  portrayed  characters,  con- 
siderable invention  in  incident,  and  a  number  of  highly 
dramatic  scenes.  Becky  Sharp  stands,  with  Uncle  Toby 
and  Sam  Weller,  as  one  of  the  clearest  characters  in 
fiction.  But  in  Esmond  Beatrix  Castlewood,  less  bril- 
liant, less  striking  than  Becky,  seems  considerably 
nearer  and  truer  to  the  human  beings  we  see  about  us — 
beings  with  some  good  in  their  hearts,  though  sadly 
marred  by  their  vanities  and  tyrannical  ambitions. 
And  of  the  other  characters  in  this  later  novel  similar 
statements  might  be  made.  Henry  Esmond  and  Lady 
Castlewood  belong  to  those  finer  natures  that  bless  the 
world;  while  for  even  the  worst  sinners  in  the  story 

338 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Thackeray  compels  our  sympathy  rather  than  our  con- 
tempt or  hatred.  In  short,  Henry  Esmond  puts  before 
us  a  much  healthier,  saner  impression  of  life  than  the 
more  vigorous  and  perhaps  more  vivid  pages  of  Vanity 
Fair, 

From  a  standpoint  purely  artistic  there  can  be  little 
doubt  of  the  supremacy  of  Esmond,  ''Its  language  is  a 
miracle  of  art. ' '  ^  Thackeray  early  reached  a  finished 
form  of  expression;  The  Hoggarty  Diamond,  written 
when  he  was  twenty-six,  has  many  of  the  masterly 
touches  we  find  in  his  last  works.  But  in  Esmond, 
where  the  eighteenth-century  spirit  is  expressed  by  the 
general  tone  of  the  language,  the  effective  art  of  this 
style  is  so  remarkable  as  almost  to  draw  our  attention 
away  from  the  plot  itself.  That  plot,  also,  as  has  been 
pointed  out,  may  not  be  equal  to  some  of  Thackeray's 
other  novels  in  the  number  of  incidents  and  exciting 
moments;  but  in  its  closeness  of  structure,  its  logical 
sequence,  and  its  lack  of  extraneous  matter  it  undoubt- 
edly shows  Thackeray  at  his  best  as  a  plot  maker  He 
was  not  always  careful  in  striking  out  the  irrelevant; 
in  such  a  work  as  The  Newcomes,  which,  after  all,  is 
more  nearly  a  great  picture  than  a  story,  the  structure 
is  of  such  a  nature  that  the  book  might  easily  have  been 
prolonged  indefinitely.  Esmond,  however,  is  a  work 
drawing  to  a  definite  end;  it  pictures  its  day,  but  the 
pictures  are  of  definite  use  in  the  making  of  the  story 
or  in  our  final  estimate  of  the  characters.  This,  then, 
is  a  novel  in  which  neither  satire,  commentary,  nor  pic- 
turesque description  delays  us  unduly. 

Doubtless  to  the  end  of  time  Thackeray  will  be  ac- 
5  Frederic  Harrison:     Forum,  Vol.  XVIII,  p.  329, 

339 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

cused  of  harsh  cynicism.  We  have  but  to  read  Esmond 
and  note  the  unconscious  dignity  and  nobility  of  its 
hero's  sacrificing  nature,  so  thoroughly  impressed  but 
not  pressed  upon  us,  to  realize  that  this  novelist  came  in 
his  later  years,  if  not  in  his  earlier,  to  see  the  beauty  of 
humanity.  If  further  proof  were  needed,  one  might 
turn  to  that  very  work  most  often  pointed  out  as  cynical, 
Vanity  Fair,  and  there  find  touches  of  exquisite  pathos. 
Eead  of  Old  Sedley's  last  moment: 

**One  night  when  she  stole  into  his  room  she  found 
him  awake,  when  the  broken  old  man  made  his  confes- 
sion. *0h,  Emmy,  I  We  been  thinking  we  were  very 
unkind  and  unjust  to  you,'  he  said,  and  put  out  his 
cold  and  feeble  hand  to  her.  She  knelt  down  and 
prayed  by  his  bedside,  as  he  did  too,  having  still  hold 
of  her  hand.  When  our  turn  comes,  friend,  may  we 
have  such  company  in  our  prayers." 

Thus,  in  the  midst  of  his  bitterest  satire  there  is  a 
vein  of  pity  for  frail  mankind.  The  large  sympathy  of 
Dickens  for  everybody  and  everything  may  have  been 
impossible  to  Thackeray;  he  undoubtedly  showed  a  cer- 
tain indifference  toward  Nature,  and  he  left  virtually 
unnoticed  the  millions  of  stragglers  and  sufferers  rank- 
ing below  the  middle  classes.  But  in  the  field  with  which 
this  master  chose  to  occupy  himself — ^that  of  the  higher 
social  classes — we  find  in  most  of  the  characters,  not 
the  idealized  nature  discovered  by  Dickens's  optimistic 
eyes,  but  a  realistic  blending  of  good  and  bad,  a  blend- 
ing so  human  as  to  be  pathetic. 

After  all,  the  portrayal  of  human  nature  is  the  great- 
est work  of  the  artist.  It  is  this  that  causes  innumer- 
able students   and   critics   of  literature  to  look  upon 

340 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Thackeray  as  the  main  novelist  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. He  looked  at  men  and  women  keenly;  he  put 
them  down  without  any  compromises  or  changes  for  the 
sake  of  ethical  or  reforming  purposes.  He  gave  such 
pictures  of  mankind  as  even  those  disliking  his  plain- 
ness must  confess  to  be  accurate.  He  smiled  so  sar- 
castically upon  our  petty  prejudices  and  meanness  that 
we  who  have  read  him  should  feel  heartily  ashamed  of 
our  foolishness  and  determine  to  be  a  little  wiser.  He 
showed  men  what  they  might  be  in  terms  of  what  they 
are. 

Austen's  influence 

While  Dickens  and  Thackeray  were  achieving  suc- 
cess after  success  various  minor  novelists  were  producing 
work  at  least  interesting  and  now  and  then  masterly. 
Jane  Austen's  influence  was  more  and  more  evident  as 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  approached,  and 
nowhere  did  it  exhibit  itself  more  clearly  than  in  these 
writers  of  lesser  fame.  In  1843  Macaulay  declared  her 
the  equal  of  Shakespeare  in  character  delineation;  in 
1848  George  Henry  Lewes  said  that  he  would  rather 
have  written  Pride  and  Prejudice  than  any  of  the  Wav- 
erley  novels.  Mrs.  Opie's  Simple  Tales  and  Tales  of  Real 
Life  were  evidently  written  with  Miss  Austen's  work 
as  an  ideal;  Miss  Ferrier's  Inheritance  and  Marriage, 
which  won  the  admiration  of  Scott,  show  the  same  ability 
to  use  the  smaller  incidents  of  life  in  well-woven  plots; 
Mrs.  TroUope  used  the  same  sort  of  domestic  themes; 
Baroness  Tautphoeus  transferred  the  same  methods  to 
her  pictures  of  both  English  and  German  life,  as  in 
Quits  and  The  Initials;  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  in  her  East 

341 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Lynne,  created  along  similar  lines  a  melodramatic  story ; 
Dinah  Muloch  Craik  in  John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  told  a 
story  that  would  have  been  dear  to  the  heart  of  Jane  Aus- 
ten; Mrs.  Gaskell,  in  her  Mary  Barton,  transferred  the 
same  realistic  methods  to  her  sympathetic  investigations 
of  the  factory  classes. 

ELIZABETH   GASKELL 

Elizabeth  Gaskell  is  of  course  best  known  through  her 
quiet  village  picture,  Cranford  (1853) ;  but  it  should 
be  remembered  that  in  the  forties  and  fifties  she  was 
being  discussed  for  some  other  volumes  considered  far 
more  important  at  the  time.  The  year  1848  was  a 
momentous  one  for  the  hordes  of  English  workmen  who 
gathered  in  and  about  London  and  loudly  demanded  their 
rights.  Charles  Kingsley,  the  almost  unknown  preacher 
at  Eversley,  later  to  become  famous  as  the  author  of 
Westward  Ho  (1855),  watched  the  dangerous  move- 
ment closely  and  sympathetically,  and  at  length  burst 
forth  with  his  Alton  Locke  and  Yeast,  two  passionate 
appeals  for  the  betterment  of  the  laborer.  It  was  but 
an  indication  of  the  humanitarianism  that  had  reached 
such  a  glowing  heat  in  the  souls  of  the  English-speaking 
people.  Charles  Dickens  was  to  add  to  the  flame;  in 
America  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  was  to  show  a  similar 
philanthropy ;  Mrs.  Gaskell  was  portraying  perhaps  more 
truly  than  any  of  these  the  pitiable  conditions  of  the 
toilers.  Her  work  was  the  result  of  personal  inves- 
tigations; for  both  she  and  her  husband,  a  clergyman, 
lived  among  the  poor,  visited  the  workers'  huts,  and 
offered  words  of  consolation  while  gathering  data.  The 
resulting  stories,  Mary  Barton  (1848)   and  North  and 

342 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

South  (1855),  struck  home  by  their  fidelity  to  life,  and 
added  much  to  the  wave  of  humanitarianism  that  con- 
tinued to  the  last  days  of  Dickens. 

Elizabeth  Gaskell,  however,  as  we  all  know,  pictured 
other  conditions  than  those  sordid  ones  found  about 
the  mills  and  factories.  The  average  rural  woman  of  Eng- 
land, the  gossipy  little  social  circles  of  the  secluded  coun- 
try towns,  the  workings  of  the  restless  human  soul  where 
physical  activity  had  almost  ceased — ^these  were  themes 
found  highly  worthy  of  her  pen  in  Cranford  (1853). 
The  old  village  where  conventionality  was  king,  this 
spinster's  paradise,  is  forevermore  famous  because  she, 
like  Miss  Austen,  showed  humanity  moved  by  the  same 
motives  and  emotions  in  the  hidden  corners  of  the  world 
as  in  the  roaring  streets  of  the  mad  city.  Other  stories 
by  Elizabeth  Gaskell  are  now  almost  forgotten ;  but  her 
Moorland  Cottage  (1850)  was  considered  so  worthy  by 
George  Eliot  that  it  evidently  furnished  many  a  hint 
for  The  Mill  on  the  Floss;  while  Ruth  (1853),  as  a 
psychological  study,  would  prove  of  value  and  interest 
to  many  a  thoughtful  reader  of  these  latter  days.  This 
book  is  designed  to  show  the  eternal  consequences  of 
sin,  whether  the  mistake  be  recent  or  long  past.  Its 
text  might  be  Macbeth 's  weighty  words:  *'If  it  were 
done  when  it  is  done  it  were  well  it  were  done  quickly. ' ' 
Ruth,  a  seamstress,  is  ruined  and  abandoned  by  a  young 
gentleman.  She  is  about  to  kill  herself,  is  saved  by  a 
preacher,  and  is  henceforth  reported  to  be  a  widow. 
At  length,  however,  the  falsehood  is  discovered;  Ruth 
becomes  a  nun  and  dies  of  fever.  Here  we  find  a  sur- 
prisingly keen  probing  into  motives — the  very  kind  of 
psychology  later  to  be  so  thoroughly  mastered  by  George 

343 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Eliot — a  psychology  far  different  from  the  broad  sort 
used  by  Eichardson,  but,  rather,  a  subtle  harmonizing  of 
sequence  of  incidents  with  sequence  of  motives. 

GEORGE  BORROW 

There  is  almost  invariably  a  reaction  to  every  literary 
movement.  The  quiet  home  life  of  such  books  as  Cran- 
ford  and  the  novels  of  Jane  Austen  was  somewhat  irri- 
tating to  writers  of  more  vigorous  blood,  and  now  and 
again  they,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  voiced  their 
protest  against  such  pictures  of  the  passiveness  pro- 
duced by  too  much  civilization.  George  Borrow,  for 
instance,  doubtless  considered  himself  as  realistic  as 
Jane  Austen  or  Elizabeth  Gaskell;  but  he  chose  in 
Lavengro  (1851)  and  The  Romany  Bye  (1857)  the  open- 
air,  gypsy  life  where  Scott's  sentiment  for  heraldry  and: 
noblemen  had  no  part,  but  where  the  virility,  frank- 
ness, and  kindness  of  men  who  live  close  to  nature  in- 
fused a  glamour  totally  different  and  yet  almost  as  pleas- 
ing. Charles  Eeade  was  another  who  stood  for  realism, 
but  not  of  the  stuffy  parlor  sort.  In  Christie  Johnstone 
(1853)  for  example,  he  contrasts  with  the  idle  rich, 
mumbling  their  bits  of  philosophy  picked  up  from 
careless  reading,  the  rough,  open  life  of  the  Scotch  fish- 
wives; while  in  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  (1856)  he  shows 
the  stern  life  of  strong  men  in  Australia.  Such  books 
he  could  well  declare  to  be  realistic ;  his  care  in  securing 
exact  facts  was  unceasing;  he  rummaged  through  whole 
libraries  to  find  the  actual  conditions  and  environ- 
ments. 


344 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

CHAKLES  KINGSLEY 

Interested  as  Charles  Kingsley  was  in  the  social  up- 
heavals of  his  day,  and  realistic  and  vigorous  as  were 
his  descriptions  of  the  miseries  of  the  toilers,  he  gained 
more  lasting  fame  by  the  mingling  of  history  and  real- 
ism found  in  his  two  novels,  Hypatia  (1853)  and  West- 
ward Ho  (1855).  The  first  of  these  deals  with  that 
most  suggestive  of  themes,  the  momentous  struggle  be- 
tween Greek  and  Christian  civilization  during  the  fifth 
century.  Most  poets  and  novelists  have  found  it  more 
to  their  liking  to  side  with  the  Greek  paganism;  but 
Kingsley,  a  clergyman,  preferred  the  other  view.  In 
his  intense  hatred,  however,  of  Roman  Catholicism,  he 
perverted  his  history  badly  to  maintain  certain  points; 
and  only  the  admirable  vigor  of  the  work  saves  it  from 
the  condemnation  of  discerning  critics.  Westward  Ho, 
dealing  with  the  English  adventures  of  Elizabeth's  day, 
is  still  more  animated;  indeed  its  picture  of  the  em- 
barking of  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  has  scarcely  ever  been 
excelled  in  bustle  and  vivid  activity.  Doubtless  Kings- 
ley  would  have  claimed  realism  for  the  general  char- 
acter of  his  work ;  but  this  is  far  nearer  Scott  than  Aus- 
ten. 

CHARLOTTE   BRONTE 

Perhaps  of  all  the  middle-century  reactionaries  against 
Jane  Austen,  Charlotte  Bronte  was  the  most  violent. 
The  same  year  that  she  published  Jane  Eyre  (1847),  her 
sister  Emily  had  written  a  kind  of  Gothic  romance, 
Wuthermg  Heights,  that  doubtless  would  have  dis- 
^sted  Miss  Austen.    Here  a  man  bom  in  shame  and 

345 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

denied  the  privileges  of  other  men  long  seeks  revenge 
in  vain,  and  at  length,  despairing,  but  unconquered, 
starves  himself,  dies  with  a  sneer  on  his  lips,  and  is 
buried  beside  a  woman,  a  side  of  whose  coffin  he  had 
torn  away  years  before.  Charlotte  Bronte,  while  not 
using  the  weird  to  such  an  extent,  spoke  with  as  much 
protest.  Disgusted  with  the  tameness  of  Jane  Austen, 
she  declared  for  the  storm  and  tragedy  of  life,  the  wild 
thrill  of  the  melodramatic.  Her  work  also  was  in  some 
ways  a  turning  back  to  the  Gothic.  She  pictures  a 
maniac,  a  solitary  man  walking  in  a  dark  garden,  the 
commotion  of  tempests,  winds,  and  lightning.  Of  course 
all  the  mysteries  are  finally  cleared,  but  they  are  mys- 
terious enough  while  they  last. 

Much  of  her  life  had  been  spent  on  the  moors  of 
Yorkshire;  the  people  of  her  home  land  were  a  plain, 
blunt,  almost  harsh  folk;  to  her,  as  well  as  to  them, 
other  people  seemed  affected.  A  portion  of  her  days, 
before  she  became  famous,  had  been  spent  in  the  school- 
room; she  came  into  a  broader  life  too  late  to  gain  the 
insight  of  a  master  observer  of  mankind;  her  view  of 
the  great  world  was  entirely  too  limited.  All  these  facts, 
and  perhaps  her  own  realization  of  them,  created  in 
her  an  irony  at  times  unsparing.  In  Jane  Eyre  (1847) 
and  Shirley  (1849),  both  dealing  with  her  own  section 
of  England,  and  Villette  (1853),  based  upon  her  Ex- 
perience as  a  teacher  in  Brussels,  she  rebels  against  an 
overdose  of  idealism,  and  delineates  friends  and  foes 
as  she  thinks  they  really  are.  She  refuses  to  picture 
Sir  Charles  Grandisons  and  languishing  Clarissas.  Jane 
Eyre  is  not  of  their  sort.  The  young  heroine  adores 
truth,  but  abhors  comfortable  self -righteousness.     As  an 

346 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

orphan,  she  is  harshly  treated;  but  after  securing  an 
education  and  becoming  a  teacher,  she  marries  the  father 
of  one  of  her  pupils  and  is  contented.  Such  a  plot  has 
been  used  innumerable  times,  but  the  character  of  the 
woman  and  the  truthfulness  to  life  save  even  such  a 
worn  theme  from  flatness.  Intense  love,  intense  hatred, 
intensity  in  all  things — these  charge  the  whole  work. 
Jane  Eyre  has  a  fascinatingly  reckless  bearing.  "When 
asked  by  a  righteous  character  what  she  must  do  to 
escape  damnation,  she  replies,  '^I  must  keep  in  good 
health  and  not  die.'*  We  should  not  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  the  book  was  condemned  as  coarse,  irreverent, 
even  immoral.  And  yet,  after  all,  it  was  but  a  part 
of  the  great  democratic  outcry  of  the  day.  Jane  her- 
self is  simply  a  democratic,  average  girl,  pretty,  but 
not  ravishing.  Her  lover  is  not  quite  so  sweet  as  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  not  quite  so  ugly  as  Caliban.  Only 
after  he  loses  an  eye  and  a  hand  in  saving  his  maniac 
wife  from  a  fire  does  Jane  fully  realize  her  love  for  him. 
The  book  is  of  course  exaggerated;  but  it  shows  re- 
bellion against  social  conventions;  it  speaks  for  the  so- 
called  laboring  classes;  it  indicates  the  silent,  bitter  re- 
volt going  on  in  millions  of  the  author's  contemporaries. 
Shirley  (1849)  is  milder  in  tone  perhaps  because 
under  the  advice  of  Lewes  Charlotte  Bronte  had  read 
Jane  Austen  more  carefully;  but  she  could  never  curb 
herself  to  the  quietness  of  such  a  woman.  Miss  Austen 
could  not  have  imagined  the  iMi&rnful,  wild,  untamed 
Shirley  Keeldar,  the  ardent  priestess  of  Nature.  In 
her  splendid  descriptions  of  Yorkshire  life,  the  author 
does  indeed  imitate  the  photographic  art  of  Austen; 
but  in  trying  to  place  herself  under  the  influence  of 

347 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

another  observer,  she  obtained  the  searching  of  heart 
of  neither  Pride  and  Prejudice  nor  her  own  Jane  Eyre, 
In  Yillette  we  find  her  abandoning  the  advice  of 
Lewes  and  returning  to  her  own  personality.  This  book 
is  indeed  a  Jane  Eyre  with  a  Brussels  setting.  In 
Jane  Eyre,  however,  her  protest  is  outspoken  and  almost 
violent ;  but  here  is  the  calmness  of  despair ;  here  sorrow 
so  evidently  outweighs  the  joy  of  life  that  resignation 
born  of  fatalism  seems  inevitable.  Bronte  may  use  at 
times  scenes  as  exciting  as  Scott 's ;  she  may  create  char- 
acters as  vigorous  and  as  full  of  spirit  as  any  of  his; 
but  she  is  a  realist,  nevertheless — a  realist  in  the  analysis 
of  emotions,  a  searcher  into  motives.  She  is  a  fore- 
runner of  George  Eliot  in  depicting  not  only  outer  but 
inner  manners, — manners  of  thought,  settled  prejudices, 
modes  of  viewing  life. 

GEORGE  lELIOT 

George  Eliot  (1819-1880)  had  not  only  a  feminine 
intuition  and  discernment  of  details,  but  a  masculine 
reasoning  nature.  Her  mind  was  stored  with  a  vast 
mass  of  information ;  her  study  of  philosophy  had  taught 
her  to  observe  closely  the  cause  and  the  effect  of  phe- 
nomena; her  keen  observation  of  men  gave  her  a  per- 
spicuity granted  to  but  few  English  writers.  More  im- 
portant, perhaps,  than  all  these  was  the  personality  of 
the  woman,  intolerant  of  hypocrisy,  zealous  for  right- 
eousness, but  full  of  a  longing  sympathy  for  the  erring 
and  the  suffering. 

The  early  life  of  Marian  Evans  was  spent  in  the  Mid- 
dle English  country,  where  she  was  reared  and  educated 
under  the  strictest  religious  training  of  the  evangel- 

348 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

ical  sort.  While  still  but  a  very  young  woman,  how- 
ever, under  the  influence  of  the  Brays  of  Coventry,  she 
broke  away  from  the  faith  of  her  fathers,  translated 
Strauss'  Life  of  Christy  and,  much  to  the  bitter  resent- 
ment of  her  family,  became  decidedly  radical  in  re- 
ligious matters.  But  it  must  not  be  thought  that  her 
belief  in  God  wa^  destroyed;  it  was  merely  changed 
and  perhaps  strengthened.  Her  husband  and  biog- 
rapher, Mr.  Cross,  says:  ^'We  generally  began  our  daily 
reading  with  some  chapter  from  the  Bible — parts  of 
which  she  particularly  enjoyed  reading  aloud.  Her 
deep,  rich  voice,  with  its  organ-like  notes,  gave  new 
meaning  and  beauty  to  the  most  familiar  passages." 
In  her  religion,  as  in  all  other  things,  she  was  an  in- 
vestigator, and  as  she  progressed  mentally  and  morally, 
her  views  on  the  matter  underwent  changes  that  seemed 
dangerously  radical  to  those  who  took  their  faith  ready- 
made  from  the  theologians.  That  she  was  open  minded 
to  all  opinions  was  always  evident.  ^'Open  to  convic- 
tion?" she  once  exclaimed.  ^*  Indeed,  I  should  think 
so.  I  am  open  to  conviction  on  all  points  except  dinner 
and  debts.  I  hold  that  the  one  must  be  eaten  and  the 
other  paid.     These  are  my  only  prejudices." 

It  was  this  refusal  to  accept  laws  and  customs  with- 
out questioning  that  doubtless  led  her  to  brave  conven- 
tionality in  living  with  Mr.  Lewes  without  the  formality 
of  a  marriage  ceremony.  Lewes 's  wife  had  twice  been 
guilty  of  adultery;  but  the  law  would  not  grant  him  a 
divorce  because  he  had  forgiven  the  first  offense,  and 
had  received  her  again  into  his  home.  It  was  this  techni- 
cality that  prevented  his  marriage  to  George  Eliot,  and 
during  the  twenty-five  years   of  theic  union  till  his 

349 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

death  in  1878,  England  came  to  look  upon  them  as 
truly  man  aad  wife.  That  she  had  respect,  if  not  a 
servile  reverence  for  the  marriage  ceremony,  is  shown 
by  her  legal  union  two  years  later  with  John  W.  Cross. 

It  was  Lewes  who  turned  her  genius  into  the  channels 
of  fiction.  As  an  editor  of  the  Westminster  Review, 
she  had  written  learned  articles  of  genuine  depth  and 
originality  of  view;  but  she  had  displayed  a  close  in- 
terest in  fiction  as  early  as  1856  by  writing  sharp  and 
daring  reviews  of  the  shallow  novels  written  by  women 
of  her  day. 

The  next  year  she  published  in  Blackwood's  her  Sad 
Fortunes  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Barton,  and  her  ca- 
reer as  a  story-writer  was  begun.  Scenes  from  Clerical 
Life,  appearing  in  1858,  contained  the  above-mentioned 
piece,  Mr.  GilfiVs  Love  Story,  and  Janet's  Repentance, 
and  this  collection  met  with  such  a  welcome  that  all 
doubts  as  to  her  ability  were  dissipated.  Now  came 
AdamBede  (1859),  followed  by  The  Mill  qti  the  Floss 
in  1860,  and  Silas  Marner  in  1861,  and  English  readers 
could  confidently  and  accurately  state  what  her  salient 
characteristics  were.  Suddenly,  without  warning,  there 
came  a  change  of  scenes,  characters,  and  methods  in  Ro- 
mola  (1863),  and  the  British  public  was  indeed  surprised. 
In  Felix  Holt  (1866),  Middlemarch  (1871)  and  Daniel 
Deronda  (1876),  the  vein  was  deeper,  the  philosophy  a 
little  darker,  the  life  a  little  more  shadowed  with  sacrifice 
and  sorrow  than  in  the  earlier  works;  as  she  herself 
said,  it  was  an  old  woman  writing  these  later  books; 
never  again  could  she  quite  obtain  the  cheer  of  her 
earlier  views. 

Elizabeth  Gaskell  had  no  small  influence  upon  those 
350 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

first  attempts  in  fiction.  The  Scenes  from  Clerical  Life 
is  much  like  Gaskeirs  quiet  stories;  The  Mill  on  the 
Floss  is  like  Moorland  Cottage  in  that  it  deals  with  the 
tendencies  of  childhood  training.  But  George  Eliot 
soon  discovered  that  Mrs.  Gaskell  made  contrasts  entirely 
too  vivid — that  too  many  of  her  characters  were  alto- 
gether good  or  altogether  bad.  She  admired  Dickens's 
work ;  for,  with  all  its  exaggeration,  it  was  founded  on 
keen  and  sympathetic  observation.  Under  such  influ- 
ences she  seems  to  have  resolved  to  be  a  sort  of  Rem- 
brant,  portraying  people  plainly,  even  if  ugliness  must 
be  mingled  with  the  beautiful.  She  had  great  sympathy 
with  the  life  she  had  seen  in  her  girlhood;  she  had  no 
snobbish  ideas  about  the  plain  people  of  Warwickshire; 
and  she  pictured  their  modes  and  customs  and  repeated 
their  ideas  with  accuracy,  but  with  no  hint  of  conde- 
scension. Whether  in  the  miser's  hut  or  in  the  great 
country  mansion,  she  was  entirely  at  home,  and  she 
looked  upon  race,  sex,  and  sect  with  an  admirable  ab- 
sence of  prejudice.  In  Adam  Bede,  for  instance,  Eng- 
land has  its  first  honest  and  sympathetic  picture  of  the 
Methodists;  in  Daniel  Deronda  we  find  her  attempting 
the  delineation  of  a  faultless  hero  in  her  effort  to  create 
liberalism  toward  the  Jew. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  intense  sympathy  that  prevented 
success  in  her  efforts  to  adopt  Thackeray 's  social  satire ; 
the  sober  philosophy  of  her  later  works  is  much  truer 
to  her.  Perhaps,  too,  it  is  the  cause  of  her  tendency 
to  sermonize  in  her  earlier  books — bits  of  prose  that 
would  be  worthy  of  high  appreciation  elsewhere,  but 
which,  in  her  novels,  prove  rather  inartistic  interrup- 
tions.    But  these  things  make  clear  one  point;  if  she 

351 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

could  not  believe  in  orthodox  Christianity  she  was  steeped 
in  its  self-sacrificing  spirit.  It  is  this  that  causes  a 
sense  of  tragedy  to  brood  over  all  her  stories,  and  it  is 
this  spirit,  too,  that  gives  to  some  of  her  pages  a  pathos 
truer  than  any  found  in  the  pages  of  her  contemporaries. 
Her  pathos,  it  may  readily  be  discovered,  is  not  the  crea- 
tion of  any  rhetorical  agency  or  any  intrusion  of  her 
own  views,  but  is  the  inevitable  result  of  certain  inci- 
dents or  situations  which  the  nature  of  this  or  that 
character  has  brought  to  pass  in  some  strife  of  the  soul. 
We  may  note  here,  also,  the  same  trait  in  her  humor; 
any  attempt  to  separate  it  from  the  character  presenting 
it  is  vain  and  ruinous. 

As  George  Eliot  approached  middle  life  she  seemed 
to  be  returning  somewhat  to  her  childhood  love  for 
Scott;  furthermore,  it  appears  that  at  the  same  time 
she  came  under  the  influence  of  Auguste  Comte,  the 
French  thinker.  The  result  was  a  sort  of  idealism  in 
Middlemarch  and  Beronda  very  different  from  the  real- 
ism of  Adam  Beds.  Throughout  all  her  changes,  how- 
ever, her  faith  in  the  power  of  little  things,  the  might 
of  the  commonplace,  never  wavered.  She  may  have 
founded  some  of  her  special  theories  upon  the  ideas  of 
Comte;  but  she  thrust  home  certain  great  beliefs  com- 
mon to  all  nations,  such  as  the  wages  of  sin  is  death, 
or  he  who  sows  the  wind  shall  reap  the  whirlwind. 
Such  large  general  axioms  will  forever  prove  good  ma- 
terial for  fiction;  they  are  grounded  in  the  heart  of 
mankind.  In  her  use  of  these  general  principles  she 
pursued  her  investigations  as  scientifically  as  the  great 
Darwin,  whose  Origin  of  Species  appeared  the  same 
year  as  Adam  Bede,    Both  the  scientist  and  the  novelist 

352 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

looked  keenly  at  cause  and  effect ;  both  showed  the  subtle 
process  of  change  resulting  from  neglected  small  forces 
in  the  past;  both  reached  their  conclusions  unsparingly 
and  with  mathematical  precision. 

This  ethical  import  is  never  absent  from  her  work; 
it  is  scarcely  ever  absent  from  any  masterpiece;  per- 
haps the  day  may  come  when  critics,  instead  of  con- 
demning it,  may  deem  it  inseparable  from  great  art. 
In  George  Eliot  early  sins  or  early  training  will  come 
back  sometime  to  demand  their  harvest.  The  inner  man 
will,  in  spite  of  all,  betray  himself  some  day  in  the  outeif 
man.  Indeed  we  have  here  the  theory  as  to  the  powe» 
of  the  subconscious  mind  so  widely  exploited  in  the-^ 
twentieth  century.  This  woman  suddenly  brings  be-' 
fore  us — quietly  enough  it  is  true,  but  impressively — 
some  incident  that  hints  of  the  moral  tendency  of  the 
character  under  observation,  and  then  she  begins  to 
unroll,  carefully  and  calmly,  the  scroll  of  destiny.  She 
has  infinite  sympathy  for  the  victim  of  destiny — ^that 
is,  the  destiny  which  each  man's  own  nature  condemns 
him  to — but  she  is  merciless  in  the  unrolling.  If  the 
scroll  shows  a  weakness  or  stain  in  the  soul  of  the  vic- 
tim, that  weakness  reappears  time  after  time  with  ever- 
broadening  surface  until  the  whole  career  is  brought 
to  shame  and  ruin.  This  is  indeed  tragedy — that  pos- 
sible tragedy  born  with  the  soul  of  every  man.  Middle- 
march  is  perhaps  the  most  sorrowfully  tragic  of  all, 
because  most  often  occurring  in  the  history  of  mankind. 
A  girl  with  high  ideals  and  a  romantic  desire  to  be  a 
martyr  for  a  cause,  when  brought  to  the  test  proves  to 
herself  her  utter  inability  to  stand  it.  Far  back  in 
the  life  of  herself  and  of  her  husband  a  mistake  in 
23  353 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

training  or  in  thinking  had  been  made,  and  after  many 
days  that  error  cried  out  with  the  voice  of  doom. 

Those  who  have  read  George  Eliot  know,  however, 
that  all  is  not  darkness.  Silas  Marner  suffered  long 
because  of  the  hasty  passion  of  his  youth ;  but  at  length 
a  little  child  led  his  soul  back  to  the  light.  In  Adam 
Beds  and  Middlemarch,  and  all  the  others,  for  that 
matter,  the  stern  chastisement  of  fate,  inevitable,  though 
long  deferred,  cleanses  the  souls  of  these  beings  of 
George  Eliot's  imagination,  and  they  come  forth  puri- 
fied, calmed,  and  filled  with  an  understanding  and  sym- 
pathy impossible  before. 

It  is  this  appreciation  of  the  complexity  of  life,  the 
recognition  of  the  good  and  the  evil  tendencies  in  each 
soul,  the  clear,  accurate  report  of  the  unending  struggle 
between  these  two  natures,  the  highly  accented  person- 
ality of  the  figures  that  pass  to  and  fro  in  her  pages, 
the  high  idealism  of  so  many  of  these  characters,  the 
unswerving  course  of  her  analysis  of  motives,  that  will 
not  allow  George  Eliot's  name  to  be  forgotten.  And 
greater  than  all  else  are  her  intense  sympathy  for  the 
righteous  aspirations  of  man  and  her  noble  belief  in  their 
possibilities. 

Oh,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence.     .     .    . 

.     .     .     May  I  reach 

That  purest  heaven;  be  to  other  souls 

The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony; 

Enkindle  generous  ardor. 


354 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 


REALISM   VS.   ROMANTICISM 

As  has  been  stated,  the  nineteenth  century  was  an 
age  of  protest  in  fiction,  as  in  almost  everything  else. 
Hardly  had  a  novelist  illustrated  his  theory  of  life  and 
art  when  some  other  writer  entered  the  arena  to  pro- 
test and  to  display  his  own  theory  and  art.  Realism 
might  seem  for  a  day  to  be  conquering,  when  suddenly 
some  writer  would  burst  into  fame  with  a  book  as  ro- 
mantic as  anything  produced  by  Scott.  In  the  midst 
of  the  middle-century  realism,  for  instance,  came  Black- 
more 's  Lorna  Doone  (1869),  a  story  containing  the  very 
essence  of  the  romantic;  while  George  Eliot  was  still 
busy  mapping  out  the  history  of  a  human  soul,  William 
Black  entered  with  his  Princess  of  Thule  (1873)  and 
other  gorgeous  romances  making  much  use  of  love  and 
pathos.  A  little  later.  Rider  Haggard  showed  his  ex- 
treme reaction  from  realism  with  his  weird  stories  of 
the  ancient  East;  and  at  length  William  Morris,  poet, 
novelist,  and  confirmed  dreamer,  cried  out  bitterly 
against  too  much  picturing  of  the  painfully  true. 

ANTHONY   TROLLOPE 

Within  the  field  of  realism  itself  there  was  protest 
and  strife.  Anthony  Trollope  (1815-1882)  was  one  of 
those  within  that  field  who  found  much  to  displease  his 
artistic  nature.  He  declared  that  Dickens  created  vice 
in  order  that  he  might  have  something  to  attack;  he 
did  not  relish  what  he  considered  the  impossible  humor 
of  Boz ;  he  liked  some  phases  of  Thackeray's  method  and 
style,  and  even  copied  them,  but  he  objected  to  Thack- 
eray's satire.     He  sought  to  show  real  life  and  average 

355 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

people,  and  possessing  a  milder  nature  than  either  Dick- 
ens or  Thackeray,  he  did  not  reproduce  the  animation 
of  the  one  or  the  pungency  of  the  other.  He  wrote  so 
rapidly  and  so  regularly  in  his  more  than  thirty  books 
that  he  necessarily  produced  much  that  was  common- 
place ;  but  he  did  do  admirable  work  in  delineating  cer- 
tain characters  of  a  high  nobility.  Like  Thackeray,  he 
allowed  certain  figures  to  reappear  time  after  time,  and 
thus,  as  they  developed  in  book  after  book,  the  English 
reading  public  came  to  know  them  as  they  had  known 
few  fictitious  personages.  In  The  Warden  (1855), 
Bar  Chester  Towers  (1857),  Dr,  Thome  (1858),  Fram- 
ley  Parsonage  (1861),  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset 
(1867) — all  known  as  ''the  Cathedral  Stories'' — the 
same  types  of  country  clergy  and  gentry  about  the 
old  cathedral  town  of  Barchester  are  shown  time  after 
time  in  all  the  phases  of  their  physical,  intellectual,  and 
moral  growth  or  degeneracy.  Trollope's  sustaining 
power  is  admirable ;  his  ability  to  retain  our  interest  for 
a  particular  type  of  social  life  through  book  after  book  is 
proof  enough  of  it ;  these  clerical  characters  used  repeat- 
edly have  come  to  be  recognized  as  among  the  best  in  the 
world's  fiction. 

The  pictures  of  the  social  life  he  chooses  to  describe 
are  often  minutely  detailed  and  more  realistic  perhaps, 
because  more  true,  than  similar  attempts  on  the  part 
of  Dickens.  Doubtless  TroUope  felt  this;  for  he  does 
not  hesitate  to  take  a  fling  at  Dickens,  Carlyle,  the  edi- 
tors of  the  London  Times ,  and  others  whom  he  looks 
upon  as  ''sentimental  reformers."  These  clergymen 
and  workers  of  his  are  plain  men  of  strength  or  of 
weakness,  often  henpecked,  more  often  uninspired,  some- 

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times  positive  sinners.  And,  with  such  extremely  honest 
realism  go  some  convincing  pictures  of  every-day  Eng- 
lish women — women  very  pleasant  sometimes,  very  cross 
at  other  times,  and  particularly  dangerous  with  the 
tongue  at  all  times.  The  plots  are  generally  conven- 
tional enough,  with  sufficient  love-making  to  hold  the 
public,  and  enough  suspense  at  times  as  to  which  one 
of  two  sweethearts  a  lover  may  choose;  but  it  is  the 
people,  not  the  plot,  that  attract — these  undeniably  hu- 
man people,  who  pass  slowly  before  us  as  they  go  about 
their  petty  schemes  and  intrigues.  This  is  indeed  the 
sort  of  work  Jane  Austen  would  have  admired,  and  again 
the  sort  that  Scott  would  have  admitted  beyond  his  pow- 
ers. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 

G.  K.  Chesterton  has  said,  *  ^  The  glory  of  George  Mere- 
dith is  that  he  combined  subtlety  with  primal  energy; 
he  criticized  life  without  losing  his  appetite  for  it. 
In  him  alone  being  a  man  of  the  world  did  not  mean  being 
a  man  disgusted  with  the  world."®  Meredith  (1828- 
1909),  the  last  of  the  Victorians,  was  not  extensively 
read,  and  was  often  misunderstood  by  his  contempo- 
raries. His  Browning-like  style  was  something  of  a  bar- 
rier between  him  and  the  general  public;  he  himself 
said,  **The  English  people  know  nothing  about  me." 
And  yet  his  thoughts  and  theories  were  sufficiently  sim- 
ple. But  those  thoughts  and  theories,  while  simple, 
were  not  very  orthodox,  and  the  conservative  British 
refused  to  follow  him.  Speaking  of  his  people,  he  said, 
shortly  before  his  death,  **  There  has  always  been  some- 

^  Illustrated  London  Neios,  May  22,  1909. 

357 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

thing  antagonistic  between  them  and  me.  With  book 
after  book  it  was  always  the  same  outcry  of  censure  and 
disapproval.  The  first  time  or  two  I  minded  it.  Since, 
I  have  written  to  please  myself. ' ' 

And  what  types  pleased  himself  ?  Half  Irish  and  half 
Welsh,  his  nature,  Celtic  to  the  core,  should  have  pos- 
sessed much  of  the  poetic,  and  that  it  did  is  evidenced 
in  his  books  of  verse;  but  in  his  novels  the  poetic  was 
rigidly  restrained ;  in  his  prose  he  became  the  keen-eyed 
observer  of  the  weaknesses  of  humanity — especially  of 
men.  He  saw  certain  flaws  in  our  individual  and  social 
structure,  and,  showing  us  these  things  with  subtle  art, 
he  doubtless  thought  to  make  us  better ;  but  his  art  was 
a  bit  too  subtle  for  his  day.  Sentiment  plays  small 
part  in  his  stories — ^the  intellectual  Mrs.  Carlyle  de- 
plored the  lack  of  tears  in  his  work — he  refuses  to 
allow  sentimental  mist  to  obscure  his  view  of  life.  So 
close  indeed  is  he  to  life  that  he  often  chose  real  men 
and  women  as  the  people  of  his  pages — Admiral  Maxse 
as  Beauchamp,  in  Beauchamp's  Career;  the  German 
agitator,  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  as  Sigismund  Alvan  in  the 
Tragic  Comedians;  Caroline  Norton,  the  granddaughter 
of  Richard  Sheridan,  as  the  heroine  in  Diana  of  the 
Crossways.  However  romantic  Meredith's  soul  may 
have  been  naturally,  he  resolutely  kept  his  feet  squarely 
upon  a  very  earthy  earth. 

Meredith  began  his  fiction  just  a  little  earlier  than 
George  Eliot.  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  appeared 
in  the  same  year  as  Adam  Bede;  then  followed  such 
works  as  Evan , Harrington  (1861),  Beauchamp's  Ca- 
reer (1876),  The  Egoist,  (1879),  Diana  of  the  Cross- 
ways    (1885)     and    The    Amazing    Marriage     (1895). 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

These  works  puzzled  or  offended  the  old-fashioned — es- 
pecially the  men.  The  passion  of  Feverel,  the  social 
satire  of  Evan  Harrington^  the  *^ gorgeous  humanity" 
of  Harry  Richmond,  the  merciless  analysis  of  The  Egoist, 
were  beyond  the  conception  of  many  who  trod  the  beaten 
path  of  thought,  and  those  who  appreciated  Meredith 
came  to  be  looked  upon  as  belonging  to  the  same  affected 
group  as  the  Browningites  or  the  Whitmanites. 

It  requires  attention  to  read  George  Meredith.  He 
is  psychological  always.  Like  George  Eliot,  he  cares 
little  for  *'an  audience  impatient  for  blood  and  glory." 
He  deals  with  the  life  of  the  soul  as  well  as  with  the 
life  of  the  body ;  and,  like  Eliot,  he  shows  the  scientific 
spirit  of  his  era  by  his  merciless  delving  into  causes 
and  effects,  and  by  his.  refusal  to  take  the  venerated  sen- 
timents for  granted.  ;  It  was  his  effort  to  overthrow 
some  of  these  hoary  tlieories — especially  those  dealing 
with  love  and  the  nature  of  woman — ^that  caused  him 
to  create  for  English  fiction  a  new  type  of  heroine — a 
healthy,  energetic  being,  glorying  in  her  own  person- 
ality, and  fighting  hard  to  preserve  this  individuality. 
These  women  of  his  have  very  decided  ideas  as  to  the 
kind  of  man  they  could  love,  and  they  do  not  hesitate 
to  cast  aside  those  who  weary  them.^  It  is  plain  that 
the  creator  of  such  women  was  not  to  be  deceived  by 
the  hypocrisy  hidden  under  any  form  of  namby-pam- 
by sentimentalism.  He  once  stated  that  he  hated  those 
authors  who  ''fiddle  harmonics  on  the  strings  of  sen- 
sualism"; and  yet  he  himself  may  at  times  have  gone 
a  little  too  far  in  the  other  direction,  and  fiddled 
discords  on  the  strings  of  individualism.  He  preached 
against  the  present  code  of  sex  relations  as  a  relic  of 

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barbarism;  this  romantic  business  of  swearing  eternal 
love  seemed  to  him  nonsense.  In  The  Egoist,  for  in- 
stance, Willoughby  thinks  himself  deeply  in  love;  but 
to  the  author  it  is  simply  a  weak  animalism  quivering 
in  the  presence  of  fresh  beauty. 

And  how  fresh,  in  both  soul  and  body,  are  these 
''beauties."  These  physically  ideal  women  of  Mere- 
dith's possess  much  of  the  charm  that  always  accom- 
panies perfect  health ;  but  at  the  same  time,  they  possess 
the  equal  charm  of  an  independent  and  self -controlled 
spirit.  From  the  first  to  the  last  of  his  novels  his  hero- 
ines are  animated,  superbly  alive.  In  his  last  work, 
Celt  and  Saxon,  left  unfinished  at  his  death,  we  find 
such  descriptions  as  this:  ''Yonder  bare  hill  she  came 
racing  up,  with  a  plume  in  the  wind ;  she  was  over  the 
long  brown  moor,  look  where  he  would,  and  vividly  was 
she  beside  the  hurrying  beck,  where  it  made  eddies  and 
chattered  white. ' '  Man 's  egotistical  treatment  of  woman 
is  a  favorite  theme  with  Meredith,  and  in  the  contest 
with  such  feminine  wills  as  he  creates,  man  has  de- 
cidedly the  worst  of  it. 

As  mentioned  before,  his  seemingly  obscure  way  of 
dealing  with  characters  and  in  expressing  himself,  has 
discouraged  or  repulsed  many  readers.  His  earlier 
work  shows  him  to  have  been  a  master  of  the  melodies 
of  the  English  language;  but  as  in  the  course  of  his 
writing  he  found  himself  not  appreciated,  he  doubt- 
less began  to  write  "to  please  himself,"  and  too  often, 
not  unlike  Carlyle,  used  the  odd  instead  of  the  obviously 
beautiful.  Perhaps,  with  Celtic  eccentricity,  he  loved 
an  aphorism  too  much.  Of  wit  he  possessed  his  share; 
but  sometimes  it  sounds  a  trifle  far-fetched.     His  humor 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

is  of  a  peculiar  type — never  loud-mouthed,  a  half-seri- 
ous, half -aside  humor,  which  points  out  the  inconsisten- 
cies of  the  passing  procession.  Pathos  is  not  absent- 
pathos  not  of  the  sentimental  type,  but  the  pathos  found 
in  modern  tragedy,  wherein  violent  physical  death  is 
no  longer  considered  necessary  or  half  so  bitter  as  men-- 
tal  or  moral  torture.  Meredith  gets  his  characters  into 
just  such  a  state  of  torture — an  agony  brought  on  by 
some  hasty  act  or  sin,  and  then  comes  a  period  of  purga- 
torial purification  from  which  the  soul  comes  forth  per- 
haps sadder,  but  certainly  wiser. 

In  all  these  pictures,  Meredith  evidently  attempts  to 
be  absolutely  correct.  He  undoubtedly  is  a  true  realist ; 
but  he  discerns  the  fact  that  realism  in  itself  is  worth- 
less unless  through  its  truthfulness  it  brings  forth  cer- 
tain bits  of  universal  truth,  or  certain  great  general 
principles  of  life.  But  whether  for  all  his  truthfulness 
and  earnestness,  Meredith  will  ever  have  numerous  lit- 
erary disciples,  or  even  an  extensive  reading,  is  very 
doubtful.  As  Chesterton  has  said  in  the  article  quoted 
in  a  previous  page,  *'he  was  as  human  as  Shakespeare, 
and  also  as  affected  as  Shakespeare.''  To  the  tyrannical 
and  all-important  *' average  reader,"  the  affectedness  is 
entirely  too  prominent,  and  as  it  is  with  Browning,  so 
it  may  be  with  Meredith:  his  theories  and  ideas  may 
have  to  sift  down  to  the  general  masses  through  the 
medium  of  a  select  body  of  enthusiasts. 

THOMAS   HARDY 

In  the  magazine  sketch  mentioned  twice  in  our  study 
of  Meredith,  there  is  the  following  contrast  between 
Meredith  and  Thomas  Hardy  (1840—):    ''Mr.  Hardy 

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ENGLISH  FICTION 

is  wholly  of  our  own  generation,  which  is  a  very  un- 
pleasant thing  to  be.  He  is  shrill  and  not  mellow.  He 
does  not  worship  the  unknown  God:  he  knows  the  God 
(or  thinks  he  knows  the  God),  and  dislikes  him.  He 
is  not  a  pantheist:  he  is  a  pandiabolist.  The  great 
agnostics  of  the  Victorian  Age  said  there  was  no  purpose 
in  nature.  Mr.  Hardy  is  a  mystic;  he  says  there  is  an 
evil  purpose.  All  this  is  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
plenitude  and  rational  optimism  of  Meredith." 

There  is  much  truth  in  these  statements.  Hardy  per- 
sistently asks  us,  after  he  has  shown  us  a  tortured  vic- 
tim of  environment  or  heredity:  *'Is  this  the  gentle 
mercy  of  your  Nature  and  your  Nature's  God?"  **Did 
this  being  come  trailing  clouds  of  glory'  from  your  all 
loving  Father?"  The  bitterness  of  his  question  lies  in 
the  fact  that  if  we  look  about  us  at  the  wrecks  of  hu- 
manity— ^wrecks  innocent  of  their  own  destruction — ^we 
can  not  answer  him. 

Hardy  is  the  best  English  disciple  of  what  we  may 
^  term  the  school  of  naturalism  in  fiction.  Fielding  would 
not  leave  affairs  to  fate,  but  manipulated  his  plot  to 
please  himself — and  Tom  Jones;  Dickens,  in  his  kind- 
ness of  heart,  either  brought  early  happiness  or  allowed 
his  creatures  to  suffer  and  sacrifice  so  nobly  that  we 
are  gratified  with  all  the  delayed  rewards  finally 
coming  to  them;  Thackeray,  while  avoiding  heroes, 
avoids  also  an  outright  answer  to  the  personal  responsi- 
bility of  his  sinners;  George  Eliot  takes  the  trouble  to 
tell  exactly  what  a  certain  being  does;  but  she  fails  to 
tell  where  he  got  a  certain  personality,  and  why  that 
personality  acts  in  this  particular  manner.  The  natur- 
alistic novelist  of  the  last  decades  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 

362 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

tury  considers  all  these  methods  rather  immature  and 
half  hearted.  This  new  student  of  life  eliminates  every 
hint  of  freedom  from  his  characters ;  they  cannot  be  . 
held  responsible;  they  are  the  victims  of  determinism. 
With  just  such  a  purpose  in  mind  Hardy  marshals  his 
events  in  such  a  manner  that  fate  seems  animated  and 
indeed  raging  with  animosity  and  cruelty. 

Now,  it  would  seem  that  to  picture  fate  in  this  mood 
Hardy  should  choose  the  complex  life  of  the  city,  where 
far  more  often  than  in  the  country,  men  in  their  struggle 
against  adversity,  sin,  and  failure,  become  tinged  with 
pessimism.  Instead,  Hardy  chooses  the  peasant  life  of 
Wessex.  Almost  despairing  of  gaining  the  truth  about 
the  higher  classes,  whose  souls  are  veneered  with  con- 
ventionality, he  turns  to  these  people  so  much  closer  to 
the  earth,  of  whom  he  can  give  a  direct  description,  and 
know  it  to  be  correct.  With  these  as  specimens  of 
genuine  humanity,  he  proceeds  in  the  most  pleasant 
of  languages  to  tell  the  most  unpleasant  of  truths. 
His  pictures  are  realistic  to  the  last  detail ;  but  they  are 
as  delicately  tinted,  as  finished,  as  polished  as  masterly 
art  can  make  them. 

Note  the  underlying  ideas  of  his  greater  stories.  A 
Pair  of  Blue  Eyes  (1873)  deals  with  the  seemingly 
fruitless  striving  of  an  individual  against  circumstances ; 
The  Return  of  the  Native  (1878),  with  its  sinister  touch 
and  its  vague  pessimism,  seems  infused  with  the  idea 
that  life  is  a  thing  to  be  put  up  with  as  a  rather  lamen- 
table fact  than  as  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for ;  Tess  of  the 
D'TJrlervilles  (1891)  apparently  enlarges  upon  the  same 
idea;  while  Jude,  the  Obscure  (1895)  is  so  extremely 
suggestive  of  this  view  that  Hardy  repulsed  by  means  of 

363 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

it  many  a  former  admirer.  In  such  works  we  hear  the 
note  of  ancient  pagan  fatalism — the  note  that  in  spite  of 
two  thousand  years  of  Christian  teaching  still  makes 
Hamlet  and  Lear  so  deeply  expressive  of  our  inner 
souls. 

Tess  is  doubtless  Hardy's  most  masterly  piece  of 
fiction.  Here  a  woman  falls  as  an  innocent  victim  of 
circumstances,  heredity,  national  and  family  traits. 
She  sins  and  sins  deeply;  but  Hardy  contends  for  her 
absolute  innocence.  The  gods  are  against  her.  She 
makes  the  wrong  sort  of  marriage ;  in  order  to  save  her 
family  she  does  what  she  knows  to  be  wrong  and  hate- 
ful; a  taint  in  her  ancestry  asserts  itself  in  a  moment 
of  rashness,  and  she  commits  murder.  Her  death  is 
a  payment  for  a  long  series  of  evils  running  far  back 
into  the  obscure  past  of  her  people.  This  is  the  fast- 
growing  idea  of  the  mighty  power  of  the  customs,  hab- 
its, and  thoughts  of  our  forefathers  upon  us,  their  com- 
paratively innocent  victims — the  undying,  though  often 
long-hidden  power  of  what  some  thinkers  are  pleased 
to  call  the  subconscious  mind.  To  such  an  observer  as 
Hardy,  and  in  such  themes  as  he  chooses,  the  irony  of 
fate  is  sure  to  be  very  evident.  The  wrong  thing  seems 
always  to  happen  at  the  wrong  time  for  Tess.  Her 
most  important  letters  are  delayed ;  when,  at  a  perilous 
hour,  she  seeks  help  at  a  certain  home,  she  finds  the 
family  away ;  she  meets  her  darker  angel  when  he  should 
have  been  elsewhere.  The  thought  is  forced  home  upon 
us:  Here  is  a  woman  who,  with  all  her  sins,  should 
stand  blameless  before  God.  It  is  pessimism  of  the  deep- 
est dye ;  the  God  whom  Hardy  sees  does  not  offer  the  con- 
solation of  the  Christian  God.     Indeed  this  novelist  dis- 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

cerns  the  fact  that  despite  all  our  high  talk  of  a  Loving 
Father,  we  all,  high  and  low,  still  worship  as  pagans. 
And,  according  to  him,  it  is  very  well;  for  surely  the 
worship  of  the  sun  and  nature,  he  might  contend,  is  as 
sane  a  religion  as  the  worship  of  this  strange  modem 
God. 

To  such  a  man  Nature  must  mean  much.  In  Far 
from  the  Madding  Crowd,  Tess,  and  the  others,  the 
woods,  the  moors,  the  sunset  are  never  used  as  mere 
backgrounds;  but  instead  there  is  something  of  the  an- 
cient Anglo-Saxon  personification  of  the  things  of  Na- 
ture. Her  various  elements  become  almost  dramatis 
personae;  the  trees  and  the  river  look  upon  Tess  with 
inquisitive  and  reproachful  eyes;  the  moors  and  the 
plains  awake  like  a  vast  monster  from  sleep ;  the  exter- 
nals voice  the  soul  of  the  thoughtful  or  tortured  human 
being  that  stands  so  lonely  among  them. 

All  this,  be  it  remembered,  is  expressed  with  a  dis- 
tinction of  language  rarely  equaled  in  nineteenth-cen- 
tury prose.  The  very  art  of  the  message  is  liable  to 
blind  us  to  the  hopelessness  of  that  message.  In  our 
enchantment  we  are  apt  to  overlook  the  fact  that  Hardy, 
while  expressing  much  truth,  is  not  telling  the  whole 
truth.  We  are  not  entirely  slaves  to  Fate.  We  all 
feel  a  certain  responsibility  for  our  acts,  and  the  very 
fact  that  we  possess  such  a  feeling  is  proof  that  we  have 
the  power  to  correct  those  tendencies  which  racial  or 
family  sins  have  thrust  upon  us.  Surely  we  are  not 
mere  puppets  in  the  hands  of  an  arbitrary  Manipu- 
lator ;  by  our  very  refusal  to  believe  it  we  show  that  we ,. 
are  not — mentally  at  least — helplessly  enslaved.  Nev- 
ertheless, think  what  we  may  about  Hardy's  tinge  of 

365 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

pessimism,  we  must  admit  the  searching  keenness  of  his 
investigation  of  sin  and  its  result,  the  powerful  nature 
of  his  methods,  the  uncompromising  attitude  with  which 
he  faces  truth,  and,  above  all  else,  perhaps,  the  art  with 
which  he  expresses  his  subtle  and  deeply  suggestive . 
thoughts. 

STEVENSON 

It  is  evident  that  the  main  tendency  in  nineteenth- 
century  fiction  was  toward  realism;  and  yet  we  almost 
close  our  study  of  the  period  with  the  most  romantic 
novelist  since  Scott.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850- 
1894)  rejected  the  pessimism  that  in  other  writers  had 
resulted  from  a  cold,  logical  analysis  of  conditions  and 
the  underlying  causes;  he  loved  the  element  of  chance 
in  all  adventures;  he  preferred  to  draw  our  wearied 
souls  away  from  the  burden  of  humdrum  life,  and  to 
lead  us  out  into  the  care-free  realm  of  adventure  and 
luck. 

During  all  those  years  of  the  nineteenth  century 
romance  had  not  been  dead.  The  *^ scientific"  trend  of 
all  thought  had  simply  caused  realism  to  overshadow  it. 
Even  the  realists  possessed  touches  of  the  romantic; 
Charles  Dickens,  George  Eliot,  and  Thomas  Hardy  were 
not  chary  of  it ;  in  the  closing  years  of  the  century  that 
masterly  piece  of  fiction  Du  Maurier's  Trilhy,  with  all 
its  realistic  pictures  was  heavily  tinged  with  romance. 
The  novel  of  crime,  or  of  human  shrewdness  pitted 
against  crime,  such  as  we  find  in  Wilkie  Collins  and 
Conan  Doyle,  is  oftentimes  but  a  revised  form  of  the 
Gothic  type  of  old.  Collins 's  Woman  in  White  (1860), 
The  Moonstone  (1868),  and  others  of  the  same  nature, 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

make  extreme  use  of  the  mysterious,  and  the  ingenuity 
required  in  withholding  the  explanation  to  the  last 
chapter  even  surpasses  the  ingenuity  used  in  inventing 
the  ghosts,  enchanted  helmets,  avenging  skeletons,  and 
talking  portraits  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  ro- 
mances of  Blackmore,  Black,  and  "William  Morris  have 
already  been  commented  upon;  they  and  their  numer- 
ous imitators  prove  the  permanence  of  the  adventure- 
loving  and  the  mystery-loving  nature  in  the  English- 
speaking  people. 

But  beyond  doubt  the  prince  of  these  modern  ro- 
mancers is  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Critics  whose 
mania  is  realism  may  rail  at  his  lack  of  cold-blooded 
*'inevitableness,"  and  may  declare  that  he,  like  Scott, 
set  back  fiction  a  half  century;  but  luckily  such  critics 
are  not  the  only  readers  of  novels,  and  a  vast  multitude 
of  readers  of  *'R.  L.  S."  find  not  only  healthful,  sane 
entertainment  in  his  books,  but  alsoL  reasons  for  nobler 
opinions  of  mankind,  and  inspiration  and  hope  for  our 
ultimate  victory  over  adversity  and  wrong.  If  he  wrote 
stories  that  could  not  have  happened,  we  are  only 
sorry  that  they  could  not.  After  all,  we  should  never 
forget  that  the  novelist  is  under  no  obligation  to  at- 
tempt a  solution  of  the  riddle  of  the  universe.  A  novel 
is  first  of  all  a  story;  any  other  element  is  but  an  ac- 
cessory. 

Your  true  realist  abhors  the  very  suggestion  of  chance ; 
Stevenson  loved  it.  From  birth  to  death  he  was  a  boy, 
and  he  had  a  boy's  keen  passion  for  venturesome  esca- 
pades and  for  primitive  life  with  all  its  daring,'  hard- 
ships, freedom,  and  closeness  to  Nature.  Adventure 
for  its  own  sake  was  ever  present.     His  heroes,  while 

367 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

figuring  in  most  hair-raising  incidents,  are  the  most 
lucky  of  men;  they  are  the  camels  that  go  through  the 
eye  of  the  needle  with  only  their  hump  of  vanity  slightly 
damaged.  Like  Poe,  Stevenson  feels  under  no  neces- 
sity of  turning  these  gratifying  results  into  ethical  les- 
sons. ''Oh,  for  a  life  on  the  Spanish  Main!"  he  seems 
to  cry;  let  psychology  and  moral  preaching  go  hang. 
Apparently  he  could  say,  with  Omar  Khayyam : 

Myself,  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 

About  it  and  about:  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  wherein  I  went. 

In  such  a  type  of  fiction  love  need  not  play  an  im- 
portant part.  Indeed,  in  Treasure  Island  (1883)  andi 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  (1886)  it  is  entirely  absent, 
and  yet  what  stories  they  are!  His  admirable  ability 
in  the  use  of  action  and  suspense  carries  us  on  and  on; 
while  a  certain  Defoe-like  display  of  accuracy  makes  the 
narrative  seem  ''just  so";  we  could  not  possibly  wish 
it  to  be  otherwise.  He  adds  to  the  apparent  truthful- 
ness of  the  tale  by  allowing  one  or  two  characters  who 
were  actually  on  the  ground — or  on  deck — ^to  tell  it  as 
they  themselves  saw  it.  That  Stevenson  could  have 
been  a  realist  is  indicated  partly  by  these  touches  of 
accurate  description  and  detailed  reporting,  partly  by 
the  keen  analysis  of  character  in  which  he  now  and 
then  indulged — such  as  those  found  in  The  Master  of 
Ballantrae  (1889)  and  in  Kidnapped  (1886).  That 
fine  scene  where  Alan  Breck,  after  killing  his  enemies, 
as  they  rush  upon  him  in  the  roundhouse,  and  after 
putting  his  sword  through  their  dead  bodies,  sits  down 

368 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

and  bursts  forth  into  a  victorious  song,  made  up  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  is  one  of  the  most  realistic  and  at 
the  same  time  dramatic  episodes  in  our  literature. 

Stevenson  aided  greatly  in  the  modern  revival  of  his- 
torical romance ;  but  at  no  time  did  he  seek  the  exact- 
ness which  seems  to  be  the  pride  of  so  many  followers 
of  this  school.  Imagination  and  fancy  supplied  his  lack 
of  historical  research ;  he  purposely  avoided  descriptions 
of  battles  that  he  could  easily  have  pictured;  but 
clear  and  hearty  descriptions  of  social  conditions  in  the 
old  days  he  could  present  with  all  the  impressiveness 
that  either  romanticist  or  realist  could  desire.  Kid- 
napped and  its  sequel,  David  Balfour,  are  sufficient 
proof  of  his  ability  to  make  the  past  live  in  all  its  vivid 
colors. 

Stevenson  seems  to  have  possessed  a  dual  personality. 
As  Dr.  William  Lyon  Phelps  says:  ^*He  was  a  combi- 
nation of  the  Bohemian  and  the  Covenanter;  he  had 
all  the  graces  of  the  one  and  the  bed-rock  moral  earnest- 
ness of  the  other ;  *  the  world  must  one  day  return  to  the 
word  ''duty,"  '  said  he,  'and  be  done  with  the  word  "re- 
ward." ^  He  was  the  incarnation  of  the  happy  union 
of  virtue  and  vivacity."  Puritanical  in  his  own  con- 
duct, he  could  not  but  admire  scamps  if  they  were  only 
reckless  enough.  Not  their  wickedness  but  their  daring 
appealed  to  him.  That  he  perceived  and  thoroughly 
understood  the  danger  of  such  duality  is  proved,  of 
course,  in  his  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  This  may  be 
romance;  doubtless  Meredith  and  Hardy  were  disdain- 
fully sure  it  could  not  have  happened ;  but  nevertheless 
has  anything  nearer  the  truth  ever  been  written  in  all 
the  world's  fiction?  It  illustrates  one  of  the  funda- 
24  369 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

mental  principles  of  humanity's  struggle  toward  right- 
eousness :  a  little  yielding  is  a  dangerous  thing. 

All  this  is  written  in  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
styles  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Perhaps  we  should 
say  one  of  the  most  remarkable  groups  of  styles.  For 
Stevenson  made  a  subtle  difference  in  his  expression  to 
agree  with  the  peculiar  character  of  each  story.  Eead 
his  main  narratives  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest — An 
Inland  Voyage  (1878),  Travels  with  a  Donkey  (1879), 
Treasure  Island  (1883),  The  Silverado  Squatters 
(1884),  Kidnapped  (1886),  Dr.  Jehyll  (1886),  The 
Master  of  Ballantrae  (1889) — and  note  how  a  certain 
distinction  of  style  accompanies  each  one.  Some  one 
has  spoken  of  the  ^^ homely,  hushed  phraseology'  of  Dr. 
Jehyll,  '^greatly  enhancing  the  ghastly  subject  matter." 
The  admirable  fitness  of  his  medium  for  the  narrative 
is  no  less  evident  in  the  others.  Stevenson  has  some- 
times been  criticized  for  displaying  his  style — for 
*' strutting,"  as  some  would  have  it;  yet  extreme  sim- 
plicity— a  simplicity  that  harmonizes  admirably  with 
the  primitive  nature  of  many  of  his  tales — is  far  more 
often  found.  That  style  was  the  result  of  immense  ex- 
perimental labor ;  its  rhythm  and  its  subtle  beauty  were 
the  outcome  of  many  a  consciously  toilsome  hour. 

His  disciples  and  imitators  have  been  numerous.  The 
works  of  such  men  as  S.  R.  Crockett,  Stanley  Weyman, 
Anthony  Hope  Hawkins,  J.  M.  Barrie,  John  Watson, 
and  Conan  Doyle  are  testimonials  of  his  abiding  influ- 
ence. That  the  influence  is  abiding  may  not  be  pleas- 
ing to  certain  authors  and  critics  who  would  like  to  be 
looked  upon  as  highly  ** scientific"  in  their  observations 
and  methods;  but  his  influence  seems  destined  to  last 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

long,  nevertheless.  Stevenson's  whole-souled  optimism 
is  a  stimulus  to  those  who  are  sadly  wise  as  to  the  real- 
ities of  life;  his  own  courage  and  his  admiration  for 
courage  are  contagious;  he  refused  to  look  upon  men 
as  mere  puppets  manipulated  upon  a  fatalistic  stage. 
He  found  life  a  very  happy  thing. 

GISSING 

George  Gissing  (1857-1903)  has  frequently  been 
dubbed  '* pessimist"  and  ''abject  realist."  If  by  pes- 
simist and  realist  be  meant  one  who  looks  at  life 
squarely,  pictures  it  as  it  is,  and  refuses  to  cover  a 
lamentable  fact  with  a  mask  of  optimism,  Gissing  must, 
indeed,  be  classed  as  such. 

Doubtless  the  circumstances  of  George  Gissing 's  life 
impelled  him  to  the  writing  of  books  that  make  ''somber 
reading."  His  earlier  days  were  an  unceasing  struggle 
against  poverty;  and  he  was  handicapped  with  a  deli- 
cate physique.  Some  of  his  earlier  writing  was  done  in 
a  cellar  room  with  the  light  coming  through  a  flat  grat- 
ing in  an  alley ;  money  was  so  scarce  that  the  finding  of 
a  sixpence  on  the  street  filled  him  with  a  sudden  exulta- 
tion never  forgotten;  the  .buying  of  a  book  often 
meant  a  bread-and-water  diet  for  forty-eight  hours.  A 
prisoner  among  sordid  scenes  which  to  his  naturally 
dreamy  and  (as  some  have  declared)  idealistic  soul 
were  utterly  distasteful,  he  inevitably  expressed  the  bit- 
terness within  him.  Both  he  and  Dickens — ^to  whom  he 
owed  much — ^presented  life  as  they  really  saw  it;  but 
they  saw  it  in  very  different  ways. 

The  result  was  what  might  have  been  expected.  The 
Englishman   and  the  American   love  the   truth — espe- 

371 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

cially  if  it  be  about  somebody  else.  They  do  not  wax 
enthusiastic  over  presentations  of  the  black  facts  of  their 
own  national  life.  Gissing,  therefore,  long  had  but  a 
slender  following.  Look  over  the  list  of  his  novels  and 
books  of  short  stories:  Demos  (1886),  Thyrza  (1887), 
A  Life's  Morning  (1888),  The  Nether  World  (1889), 
New  Gruh  Street  (1891),  The  Odd  Woman  (1893), 
Eve's  Ransom  (1895),  The  Crown  of  Life  (1899)  ;  few 
indeed  are  those  that  gained  a  notably  wide  reading. 
This  is  not  to  the  author's  discredit;  it  reflects,  rather, 
upon  the  nature  of  an  audience  which,  apparently,  was 
unwilling  to  face  the  painful  truths  about  itself.  Grim 
realist  as  Gissing  may  have  been,  he  never  looked  upon 
the  mere  facts  of  existence  as  all  in  all.  His  books  are 
not  mere  history;  they  are  an  interpretation  of  history 
as  well,  and,  unlike  Zola,  he  does  not  allow  his  reader  to 
forget  that  at  the  same  moment  the  beautiful  was  ex- 
isting. One  of  his  last  books,  The  Crown  of  Life,  is 
as  full  of  spiritual  uplift  as  many  a  novel  written  by 
an  outright  idealist.  In  The  Year  of  Jubilee  the  mo- 
notony, the  dulled  emotions,  the  slow  death  of  soul 
could  have  been  portrayed  only  by  a  man  whose  heart 
had  been  stirred  by  the  sordid  life  about  him.  Eve's 
Ransom  might  serve  as  another  instance  of  the  novelist 's 
personal  interest  and  sympathy  for  mankind.  A  man 
sacrifices  himself  for  a  girl ;  she  accepts  the  sacrifice  un- 
thinkingly, gladly,  and  goes  her  way ;  he  has  left  to  him 
only  the  thorn  of  the  rose.  Yet,  even  here  there  is  a 
touch  of  idealism;  for  Gissing  shows  the  wounded  man's 
realization  that  the  pain  was  worth  while,  that  the  ex- 
perience, the  insight,  the  revelation  of  himself  and  of 
others  are  worth  gaining.     The  Crown  of  Life,  men- 

372 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

tioned  above,  indicates  still  more  clearly  his  ever-grow- 
ing tendency  toward  a  more  open  expression  of  this 
idealism.  Love  is  the  crown;  it  is  worth  all  the  strug- 
gle, the  sorrow,  the  agony  of  our  earthly  existence. 

Two  themes  were  always  attractive  to  this  clear-eyed 
observer:  (1)  the  degrading  effect  of  poverty;  (2)  the 
importance  of  culture.  By  culture  Gissing  did  not  at 
all  mean  mere  education,  mere  accumulation  of  facts, 
about  which  there  is  so  much  British  and  American 
boasting  in  our  day.  He  longed  for  a  national  Greek- 
like feeling  and  desire  for  the  beautiful.  Education 
and  culture  for  their  own  sake  and  not  for  their  money- 
making  effects;  that  well-proportioned  view  of  life 
which  comes  only  from  thinking  about  and  associating 
with  the  noble, — these  were  subjects  of  genuine,  heart- 
felt interest  to  him. 

Necessary  as  culture  is,  Gissing  points  out  that  it  is 
incompatible  with  poverty;  and  just  here  is  the  cause 
of  much  of  the  tragedy  in  modem  life.  But,  says 
Gissing,  there  is  tragedy  worse  than  all  this — the  story 
of  those  who  have  the  ability  for  intellectual  growth 
and  know  it,  and  yet  never  reach  a  favorable  environ- 
ment for  the  fruitage.  He  seems  almost  to  echo  the 
words  of  Carlyle :  *  *  This,  and  this  alone,  I  call  a  trag- 
edy; that  a  soul  should  be  bom  into  this  world  with  a 
capacity  for  knowledge,  and  should  die  out  of  it  with 
the  capacity  undeveloped."  Gilbert  Grail,  the  factory 
hand,  with  such  capacity  of  mind  and  soul,  is  lifted  for 
a  moment  into  a  view  of  that  nobler  life  for  which  he 
yearns,  and  then  is  suddenly  thrust  down  once  more  to 
his  daily  grind  of  soul-destroying  toil.  This  is  indeed 
the  true  pathos  of  modem  industrial  life. 

373 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Through  all  the  work  of  this  grim  realist  runs  a  sav- 
ing strain  of  idealism.  The  world,  as  Gissing  sees  it, 
is  toilsomely  but  continuously  creeping  upward.  In  the 
novelist 's  own  words,  he  tells  *  ^  the  story  of  those  fathers 
whose  lives  are  but  a  preparation  for  the  richer  lives 
of  their  sons." 

Absolutely  sincere,  Gissing  painted  his  pictures  as  he 
found  their  originals  in  the  world  about  him ;  and  at  all 
times  he  distinguished  fearlessly  and  clearly  between 
the  noble  and  the  base.  He  chose  his  subjects,  his  view- 
points, his  theories  of  life,  and  stoutly  stood  by  them. 
A  few  concessions  to  the  public  desire  for  sentimentality 
and  the  ''live  happily  ever  afterward"  ending  might 
have  brought  him  popularity  and  the  cultured  environ- 
ment his  nature  craved.  His  artistic  nature  was  too 
true  for  such  a  temptation;  he  felt  too  keenly  *'the 
sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things." 

MINOR  NOVELISTS 

What  a  host  of  novelists  must  necessarily  go  almost  un- 
noticed! Anne  Bronte  (1819-1849),  sister  of  Charlotte, 
and  author  of  Agnes  Grey  and  the  Tenant  of  Wildfell 
Hall;  Henry  Kingsley,  brother  of  Charles,  and  author 
of  the  Australian  story,  Geoffrey  Hamlyn;  George  John 
Whyte  Melville,  author  of  the  hunting  novels,  Kater- 
felts  and  Black  hut  Comely;  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  au- 
thor of  Headlong  Hall,  Nightmare  Ahhey,  and  Crochet 
Castle;  George  MacDonald,  author  of  Robert  Falconer 
and  Alex  Forbes;  Joseph  Henry  Shorthouse,  author  of 
John  Inglesant  aad  the  poetical  child  story,  Little 
Schoolmaster  Mark;  Lewis  Carroll,  author  of  the 
strange  Alice^s  Ad/ventures  in  Wonderland;  Sir  Walter 

374 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Besant,  author  of  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men, 
and,  with  James  Eiee,  of  The  Golden  Butterfly;  William 
Carleton,  the  author  of  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish 
Peasantry  and  the  Irish  famine  tale,  Black  Prophet; 
Joseph  Sheridan  LeFann,  author  of  two  highly  success- 
ful works,  Uncle  Silas  and  In  a  Glass  Darkly;  William 
Henry  Giles  Kingston,  author  of  more  than  a  hundred 
stories  of  the  sea;  William  Harrison  Ainsworth,  author 
of  Old  St.  PauVs  and  The  Tower  of  London;  G.  P.  R. 
James,  the  historical  romancer  whom  Thackeray  bur- 
lesqued so  effectively;  Samuel  Warren,  author  of  the 
once  famous  Ten  Thousand  a  Year;  Mrs.  Henry  Wood, 
author  of  Mrs,  Halliburton's  Troubles  and  the  still  pop- 
ular East  Lynne;  Mrs.  Marsh,  author  of  The  Admiral's 
Daughter;  Anne  Manning,  author  of  the  effective  Mil- 
ton story,  The  Maiden  and  Married  Life  of  Mary  Pow- 
ell; Mrs.  Norton,  author  of  the  stirring  Stuart  of  Dun- 
leath;  Julia  Kavanagh,  author  of  Madeleine;  Charlotte 
Tucker  (A.L.O.E.— A  Lady  of  England),  author  of  the 
children's  books.  Exiles  in  Babylon  and  House  Beau- 
tiful; Mrs.  Ewing,  author  of  Eemembrances  of  Mrs. 
Overtheway;  Mrs.  Charles,  author  of  the  famous  Luther 
story,  The  Schonberg-Cotta  Family;  Mrs.  Oliphant,  au- 
thor of  the  Eliot-like  Salem  Chapel  and  Passages  in  the 
Life  of  Margaret  Maitland — these  are  but  a  few  of  the 
minor  story-tellers  who  have  been  but  briefly  mentioned 
or  totally  neglected  in  our  study. 

It  is  plain  that  during  the  nineteenth  century  fiction 
voiced  practically  every  emotion,  idea,  theory,  or  hobby 
that  man  might  well  have.  It  gained  not  only  a  re- 
spectability, but  an  influence  undreamed  of  by  Richard- 
son and  Fielding.     In  logical  arrangement,   accuracy, 

375 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

truthfuhiess  to  life,  genuine  earnestness,  and  artistic 
expression,  it  advanced  more  rapidly  than  the  English 
stage  of  the  century,  and,  in  all  but  the  artistic  expres- 
sion, as  rapidly  a^  British  poetry  of  the  period.  The 
century  began  with  a  rivalry  between  the  romanticism 
of  Scott  and  the  realism  of  Jane  Austen,  and  it  closed 
with  a  similar  rivalry  between  the  two  methods.  A 
friendly  rivalry  it  was,  however;  for  romance  learned 
to  keep  more  strictly  within  the  boundaries  of  reason 
while  realism  learned  to  mingle  the  dreamy  and  even 
the  mysterious  with  its  attempts  at  rigidly  accurate 
pictures.  No  one  can  doubt  the  ethical  efficiency  of  the 
nineteenth-century  novel.  It  laughed  at  hypocrisy, 
false  pride,  and  vanity;  it  revealed  and  corrected  the 
evils  of  its  day ;  it  made  an  earnest  effort  to  throw  some 
light  on  the  philosophy  of  life.  It  questioned  and  it 
answered;  it  praised  and  it  rebuked;  it  guided  and  it 
inspired.  It  apparently  made  an  honest  effort  to  de- 
stroy the  half -gods  that  the  true  god  might  appear. 


376 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Twentieth-Century  Fiction 

In  these  first  years  of  the  twentieth  century  the  novel 
and  the  short  story  have  outstripped  in  popularity  and 
importance  all  other  forms  of  English  literary  work. 
While  among  some  European  nations  the  drama  has 
made  tremendous  strides,  and  has  become  the  rival  of 
fiction  in  expressing  philosophies,  public  sentiment,  and 
critiques  on  life,  it  has  not  been  so  in  Great  Britain. 
The  prose  narrative  now  occupies  the  best  creative  gen- 
ius of  the  Islands.  Critics  who  are  lovers  of  poetry 
look  with  pessimism  upon  this  condition;  but  as  we 
examine  the  earnest  painstaking  work  of  some  of  our 
living  novelists,  and  observe  how  closely  and  how  se- 
riously they  are  endeavoring  to  reach  into  the  very 
heart  of  modern  life,  we  should  not  be  disturbed  lest 
the  high  standards  of  past  literature  be  lowered. 

In  these  latter  days  the  desire  for  accuracy  may  in- 
deed be  in  some  danger  of  running  to  extremes.  There 
seems  to  be  a  craze  for  exactness  of  detail.  Your  novel- 
ist, before  writing  a  chapter,  apparently  hies  himself 
to  some  particular  section  of  the  globe,  photographs  the 
people,  their  homes,  their  possessions,  even  to  the  ox 
in  the  barn,  fills  voluminous  note-books,  and,  laden  with 
minutiae  returns  home  to  write.  There  is  some  danger 
of   producing   a  geography   instead   of   a   novel.     The 

377 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

writer  might  have  saved  much  of  his  time  and  money 
by  staying  at  home  and  observing  the  general  traits  of 
humanity,  the  eternal  truths,  and  the  main  motives  and 
effects  that  can  be  found  anywhere,  and  that,  after  all, 
make  fiction  worth  while.  But  the  tendency  shows  at 
least  a  commendable  effort  on  the  part  of  modern  writers 
to  take  themselves  and  their  art  seriously. 

IMPRESSIONISM 

There  is  evident  also  in  these  days  a  desire  to  avoid 
covering  in  one  book  the  heavens  above,  the  earth  be- 
neath, and  the  waters  under  the  earth.  Picturing 
accurately  a  cross-section  of  life — ^this  is  the  sum  and 
substance  of  numerous  contemporary  novelists.  Im- 
pressionism— ^the  name  sometimes  applied  to  the  method 
— is  a  sort  of  snap  shot  of  existence,  a  bringing  out  of 
not  all  the  phases  of  man's  activities,  hut  only  those 
that  make  for  the  greatest  intensity  of  impression  at 
a  given  moment.  This  may  mean  a  glorification  of  the 
commonplace,  and,  to  its  enemies,  such  writers  seem  to 
get  most  valiantly  nowhere.  The  impressionistic 
method  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  opposite  of  the 
George  Eliot  type  of  novel;  for  she  began  with  the 
inner  cause  and  worked  outwardly  to  its  effect  upon 
the  character  and  his  deeds,  while  the  true  impressionist 
seizes  upon  the  individual's  appearance  and  manners, 
and  works  inwardly  to  the  quality  of  his  or  her  soul. 
Whether  the  true  state  of  the  character's  soul  is  ever 
pictured  by  such  a  method,  or  whether  the  picture  given 
is  simply  the  author's  conjecture  based  upon  certain 
external  facts,  is  an  open  question ;  but  the  fact  remains 
that  we  all  are  compelled  to  gain  our  estimate  of  any 

378 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

human  being  by  just  such  a  method.  In  this  type  of 
fiction  the  idea  of  physical  reward  for  goodness  and 
punishment  for  sin  does  not  necessarily  enter.  Mar- 
riage, as  a  reward,  for  instance,  is  decidedly  absent. 
Thus,  in  James's  The  Tragic  Muse,  a  painter  wishes  to 
marry  a  female  politician  and  a  diplomat  wishes  to 
marry  an  actress ;  but  the  author  has  the  actress  marry 
a  very  poor  actor,  and  considers  this  far  better  morality 
than  allowing  her  to  marry  a  diplomat,  with  whose  ideas 
and  ambitions  she  has  nothing  in  common.  Finally,  the 
impressionistic  novel  is  generally  short.  It  is  an  epi- 
sode cut  by  the  author's  scissors  from  the  book  of  life. 

FRENCH  INFLUENCES 

The  influence  of  French  theories  is  exceedingly  ev- 
ident in  the  fiction  of  the  more  painstaking  writers 
of  contemporary  fiction.  Fielding,  Scott,  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  and  George  Eliot  simply  could  not  keep  them- 
selves out  of  their  stories;  when  they  were  inspired 
with  a  preachment,  the  plot  had  to  wait  until  the  ser- 
mon had  been  expressed.  To-day,  our  better  artists  are:^ 
endeavoring,  with  some  success,  to  separate  themselves 
from  their  plot,  to  allow  the  story  to  unroll  itself  with- 
out interruptions,  to  let  the  tale,  by  its  very  impressive- 
ness,  do  its  own  preaching.  Flaubert  once  said,  '^I  do 
not  believe  that  the  artist  should  express  his  opinion 
on  anything  in  the  world.  He  may  communicate  it, 
but  I  would  not  have  him  speak  it.  .  .  .  Hence  I 
limit  myself  to  a  rendering  of  things  as  they  appear  to 
me,  to  an  expression  of  what  seems  to  me  true,  let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  will."     It  has  been  a  hard 

379 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

lesson  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  learn ;  but  there  are  indi- 
cations in  some  of  our  contemporary  fiction  that  the 
idea  is  slowly  gaining  credence. 

From  the  French,  also,  we  have  gained  another  ten- 
dency— a  doubtful  gain,  according  to  many  critics. 
Our  modem  novelist  is  claiming  the  right  to  discuss 
anything  or  any  phase  of  a  thing.  The  result  is  that 
some  of  our  ** problem  novels"  are  probing  into  affairs 
that,  in  the  opinion  of  the  old  fashioned,  might  better 
be  left  to  a  meeting  of  a  State  Association  of  Physicians 
and  Surgeons,  or  indeed  to  the  lecturer  at  the  dissecting 
table.  But  the  ethical  or  religious  uplift  in  some  mod- 
ern masterpieces  of  fiction  has  so  far  counterbalanced 
this  tendency.  Barriers  Auld  Licht  Idylls,  Watson's 
Beside  the  Bonnie  Briar-Bush,  and  Benson's  Beside  Still 
Waters  have  a  sweetness,  a  sanity,  a  healthfulness  about 
them  that  contradict  any  idea  that  morbid  curiosity  as 
to  sexual  relationships  is  the  most  popular  trait  in  con- 
temporary fiction. 

MO  CARTHY.      LANG 

The  number  of  living  novelists  is  of  course  too  great 
to  admit  of  more  than  a  glance  at  their  names  aad  main 
productions.  Their  work  is  indeed  too  recent  to  allow 
of  a  just  estimate  of  its  worth;  in  future  years  readers 
might  wonder  why  their  names  were  mentioned  at  all. 
Of  the  permanence  of  some  of  these  contemporaries 
there  can,  however,  be  no  reasonable  doubt.  Justin  Mc- 
Carthy (1830 — ),  dramatist,  novelist,  historian,  and 
poet,  long  since  established  his  fame  with  such  stories  as 
Marjorie,  The  Dryad,  The  Flower  of  France,  and  The 
Illustrious  0' Hag  an,  and  that  in  his  old  age  he  has  lost 

380 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

none  of  the  dramatic  quality  so  characteristic  of  his 
fiction  is  evidenced  in  his  recent  delineation  of  the  typi- 
cal Irish  swash-buckler  in  The  O'Flynn.  Andrew  Lang 
(1844 — ),  another  poet,  historian,  essayist,  and  fiction- 
writer,  still  composes  with  zest,  and  in  his  old  age  seems 
destined  to  exhaust  the  rainbow  with  such  works  as  the 
Green  Fairy  Book,  the  Blue  Fairy  Book,  the  Yellow 
Fairy  Book,  etc, 

WATSON.      BARRIE 

John  Watson  (Ian  Maclaren)  (1850-1909),  who  left^ 
his  task  at  a  moment  when  an  admiring  public  was  ex- 
pecting masterly  work  of  him,  showed  in  such  volumes 
as  Beside  the  Bonnie  Briar-Bush,  The  Bays  of  Auld 
Lang  Syne,  and  Kate  Carnegie,  a  purity  of  sentiment, 
a  religious  emotion,  the  almost  stubborn  character  of 
the  Scot,  softened  by  love  of  the  spiritual,  the  homely 
humor  and  unassumed  pathos  of  his  native  land,  in 
such  a  winsome  manner  that  he  drew  the  world  toward 
him.  His  fellow  countrymen,  James  Matthew  Barrie 
(I860—)  and  Samuel  Rutherford  Crockett  (I860—), 
have  pictured  with  equal  charm  the  plain,  strong, 
fervent  folk  of  the  Border-land  and  Highlands.  Bar- 
riers Auld  Licht  Idylls  showed  what  genius  could  do 
with  a  seemingly  commonplace  and  uninteresting  field, 
and  gained  for  the  author  a  popularity  that  has  been 
vastly  increased  by  his  other  Scotch  stories,  such  as 
When  A  Man's  Single,  A  Window  in  Thrums,  The  Lit- 
tle Minister,  and  Sentimental  Tommy.  *'His  all-power- 
ful tool  is  the  sense  of  humor.  It  enables  him  to  in- 
terpret life  sanely  and  wisely,  and  at  the  same  time 
joyously;  it  teaches  him  to  construct  plots  delightful  in 

381 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

their  unexpectediiess,  and  helps  him  to  write  witty 
lines.  "^  But  back  of  this  humor  is  a  sympathy  born 
of  a  cheerful  trust  in  mankind.  Constantly  he  is  re- 
minding us  that  in  the  midst  of  this  rushing,  careless, 
seemingly  cruel  world  are  a  multitude  of  little,  every- 
day, thoughtful  acts  of  kindness  and  love.  He  seems 
to  have  a  woman's  intuition  for  understanding,  the 
woman's  ** unutterable  reason,"  the  feminine  ** be- 
cause." His  is  not  a  strenuous,  intensive  art  or  expres- 
sion ;  it  does  not  strike  one  like  a  pile-driver,  but  gently 
pervades  our  consciousness  with  a  sense  of  undeniable 
truth.  '*  Whatever  [he]  writes  is  literature,  because  he 
dwells  islanded  amidst  the  world  in  a  wise  minority  of 
one.  ...  He  has  achieved  individuality  and 
thereby  passed  out  of  hearing  of  the  ticking  of  clocks 
into  an  ever-everland  where  dates  are  not,  and  conse- 
quently epitaphs  can  never  be."  ^ 

CROCKETT 

Crockett  in  his  tales,  The  Stickit  Minister,  The  Raid- 
ers, The  Men  of  the  Moss  Hags,  Cleg  Kelly,  The  Black 
Douglas,  and  Me  and  Myn,  is  more  dramatic  than  his 
fellow  Scotchmen,  and  uses  events  as  stirringly,  or  as 
theatrically,  as  Scott.  His  recent  work,  The  Men  of  the 
Mountain  (1909),  dealing  with  the  Franco-Prussian 
"War,  is,  however,  placed  upon  a  more  real  basis  of  life, 
and  the  vividness  is  not  injured  by  any  suggestion  of 
exaggeration.  These  three  writers,  with  their  sympa- 
thetic descriptions  of  the  environment,  habits,  and  modes 
of  thought  of  their  country,  and  with  their  keen  ap- 
preciation of  the  brave  spirit  that  has  upheld  their 

1  Outlook,  Vol.  91,  p.  54.  2  Forum,  Vol.  41,  p.  137, 

382 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

homeland  through  many  a  trial,  have  made  Scotland 
known  and  beloved  throughout  the  world  as  never  be- 
fore. 

MRS.    WARD 

A  novelist  just  now  attracting  international  atten- 
tion is  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  (1851 — ),  author  of  Rob- 
ert Elsmere,  Marcella,  Helheck  of  Bannisdale,  Lady 
Rose's  Daughter y  Fenwick's  Career,  Marriage  a  la  Mode, 
Lady  Merton,  Colonist,  and  numerous  other  books.  It 
is  certain  that  no  other  woman  except  George  Eliot  and 
possibly  the  author  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cahin,  and  very  few 
men  of  the  nineteenth  century,  have  had  a  wider  read- 
ing. 

Clinging  rather  to  the  old-fashioned  type  than  to  the 
later  psychological,  she  nevertheless  reflects  the  new 
tendencies  in  thought  that  have  entered  since  George 
Eliot  ceased  to  write.  She  believes  thoroughly  in 
** higher  criticism"  in  religion  and  everything  else,  and 
she  does  not  hesitate  to  promulgate  her  ideas  about  a 
world  that  is  **out  of  joint."  She  is  emotional,  and,  as 
Chesterton  says  of  Hardy,  she  is  shrill  at  times.  In 
such  works  as  Marcella,  where  she  unhesitatin'^^ly  looks 
into  the  sources  and  ultimate  results  of  our  social  the- 
ories ;  in  Helheck  of  Bannisdale,  which  deals  with  a  de- 
vout Catholic's  struggle  with  modern  skepticism;  in 
Lady  Rose's  Daughter,  where  some  questions  of  per- 
sonal ethics  are  boldly  discussed;  in  these  and  others 
of  her  books  she  may  at  times  exaggerate ;  but  she  is  so 
intensely,  so  extremely  in  earnest,  that  many  readers 
have  no  inclination  to  ridicule  her. 

Mrs.  Ward  is  distinctly  Anglo-Saxon  in  tempera- 
383 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ment.  Energetic,  purposeful,  always  willing  to  fight 
for  a  cause,  with  an  abiding  faith  in  the  doctrine  of  race- 
conscience,  she  might  be  a  power  for  good  could  she 
look  upon  life  more  steadily  and  calmly,  and  as  a  whole. 
But  her  heroine,  to  use  the  heroine 's  own  words,  gener- 
ally wants  *'more  life,  more  life,  even  if  it  lead  to  agony 
and  tears,"  and  the  result  of  all  this  comes  dangerously 
near  hysteria.  These  heroines  almost  invariably  absorb 
our  attention ;  so,  however,  does  the  tigress  in  the  circus 
cage.  Self-willed,  dissatisfied,  rushing  on  to  success  or 
destruction,  they  are  always  better  delineated  than  the 
male  characters,  who  are  generally  mere  men  and  some- 
times hardly  that.  This  portrayal  of  feminine  natures, 
a  certain  distinction  of  style,  and  the  positiveness  with 
which  the  view-point  is  presented  have  gained  Mrs. 
Ward  a  wide  and  an  enthusiastic  following  among  the 
less  critical;  but  to  the  more  discriminating  the  strain 
of  melodrama  and  the  over  fervid,  not  to  say  violent, 
nature  of  much  of  her  work  are  a  distinct  barrier. 

That  she  makes  mistakes  of  course  goes  without  say- 
ing. A  visit  to  America  resulted  in  her  Marriage  a  la 
Mode,  a  book  eagerly  awaited  by  Americans,  but  which 
turned  out  to  be  a  melodramatic  tract  on  the  divorce 
problem,  with  an  Irish-Spanish  heroine.  Another  re- 
sult of  the  visit  was  Lady  Merton,  Colonist,  in  which, 
with  certainly  a  lack  of  the  admired  modern  inevitable- 
ness,  an  aristocratic  lady  and  a  drunkard's  self-made 
son  are  brought  together  and  of  course  married.  De- 
spite these  lapses  in  art,  Mrs.  Ward  rarely  fails  to  re- 
veal a  certain  distinction  of  style  and  a  delineation  of 
characters  not  surpassed  by  many  of  her  contemporaries 
during  the  more  than  thirty  years  of  her  literary  life. 

384 


TWENTIETH-CENTUEY  FICTION 

TTATiT.    CAINE 

The  critical  world  is  undeniably  divided  as  to  the  mer- 
its of  Hall  Caine  (1853 — ).  Admirers  point  out  the 
immense  virility  and  dramatic  power  of  his  stories; 
enemies  make  cynical  remarks  about  a  similar  virility 
and  coloring  in  circus  posters.  Beginning  with  The 
Shadow  of  a  Crime  in  1895,  and  following  this  with 
such  successful  tales  as  A  Son  of  Eagar,  The  Deemster, 
The  Bondsman,  The  Christian,  The  Eternal  City,  and 
The  Prodigal  Son,  he  has  presented  a  picture  of  life  as 
vigorous  as  any  ever  portrayed  by  Scott,  and  certainly 
stronger  in  character  delineation. 

There  is  a  note  of  gloomy  tragedy  in  much  that  he 
has  written — a  weirdness  indeed  that  at  times  reminds 
one  of  the  eighteenth-century  Gothic  romance.  He  has 
the  ability  to  lead  up  to  intense  climaxes,  and  this,  with 
the  great  amount  of  physical  animation,  violent  clashes 
of  will,  and  high  emotional  pitch,  makes  his  novels  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  staging.  Far  more  than  in  Scott 
the  ethical  purpose  is  present;  despite  the  gloomy 
touches  of  the  Northland,  so  frequently  felt  in  his 
stories.  Hall  Caine  leaves  the  reader  with  a  bolder  be- 
lief in  the  might  of  the  right.  He  may  not  possess  the 
inevitableness  and  the  accurate  psychology  that  the  real- 
ists desire ;  but  the  appeal  he  makes  to  the  emotions,  the 
virility  of  his  characters,  and  the  dark  splendor  he 
casts  about  them  are  not  easily  forgotten. 

MINOR  NOVELISTS 

It  might  be  interesting,  had  we  the  space  of  Field- 
ing's Tom  Jones  or  Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy,  to  give 
25  385 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

special  attention  to  all  these  writers  of  the  light  or 
serious  phases  of  life.  We  may  but  mention  the  com- 
fortably old-fashioned,  romantic  stir  of  A  Gentleman  of 
France,  Under  the  Bed  Rose,  and  In  King's  Byways 
of  Stanley  Weyman  (1855 — ) ;  the  Orientally  fantastic, 
weird,  and  literally  hair-raising  romance  found  in  King 
Solomon's  Mines,  She,  The  People  of  the  Mist,  and  The 
Morning  Star  by  Eider  Haggard  (1856 — )  ;  the  good-na- 
tured leisureliness — or  laziness — of  Idle  Thoughts  of  an 
Idle  Fellow,  Three  Men  in  a  Boat,  and  The  Diary  of  a 
Pilgrimage,  or  the  humorous  domestic  descriptions  of 
the  recent  They  and  I  by  Jerome  K.  Jerome  (1859 — )  ; 
the  exciting  swash-buckler  methods  of  Max  Pemberton 
(1863 — )  in  such  novels  of  the  good  old  Scott  and  Cooper 
type  as  The  Sea  Wolves,  Pro  Patria,  The  House  under 
the  Sea,  and  The  Diamond  Ship;  the  extravagant  rant- 
ing of  Marie  Corelli  in  her  Sorrows  of  Satan,  The  Murder 
of  Delicia,  and  God's  Good  Man;  the  breezy,  Scott-like 
romance  of  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,  The  God  in  the  Car, 
and  Rupert  of  Hentzau,  by  Anthony  Hope  Hawkins 
(1863 — )  ;  and  the  mingling  of  humor,  cynicism,  pathos, 
realism,  and  romance  in  Children  of  the  Ghetto,  They 
that  Walk  in  Darkness  and  Merely  Mary  Ann  by  Israel 
Zangwill  (1864—). 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 

Maurice  Hewlett  (1861 — )  is  a  novelist  commanding 
wide  attention  in  these  first  years  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury. As  far  back  as  1895  he  produced  a  little  book 
of  charming  prose  entitled  Earthwork  Out  of  Tuscany. 
Three  years  later  came  The  Forest  Lovers,  a  story  which 
rang  true,  and  which  the  people  received  gladly.'    When 

386 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Richard  Yea  and  Nay  was  issued,  Mr.  Hewlett  stood  a 
recognized  master  of  historical  romance.  His  pen  has 
worked  rapidly  since  1895,  and  such  volumes  as  Little 
Novels  of  Italy,  The  Queen's  Quair,  New  Canterbury 
Tales,  The  Road  in  Tuscany,  The  Fool  Errant,  The 
Stooping  Lady,  Halfway  House,  Open  Country,  Rest 
Harrow,  and  The  Song  of  Renny  have  convinced  many 
readers  that  his  is  an  abiding  genius  in  fiction. 

Not  all  readers,  however,  have  found  such  a  genius  in 
him.  Milton  Bronner  in  his  book  on  Hewlett  declares 
Richard  Yea  and  Nay  **  magnificent  but  none  the  less  a 
failure,"  and  The  Forest  Lovers  *' directly  responsible 
for  a  school  of  cardboard  mediaeval  fiction."  Others 
have  severely  criticized  him  for  the  ethics  of  sex  relation- 
ship exploited  in  his  three  later  stories,  Open  Country, 
Halfway  House  and  Rest  Harrow.  Nevertheless,  as 
Bronner  says,  '^In  the  main  Mr.  Hewlett's  women  are 
good  women.  They  are  loyal  and  loving,  ready  alike  to 
take  beatings  and  kissings. ' ' 

ARNOLD   BENNETT 

Arnold  Bennett  (1865 — )  has  said,  **The  greatest 
makers  of  literature  are  those  whose  vision  is  widest  and 
whose  feeling  has  been  most  intense ;  their  lives  are  one 
long  ecstasy  of  denying  that  the  world  is  a  dull  place." 
The  latter  part  of  this  statement  might  well  be  applied 
to  Bennett.  His  experience  as  a  journalist  imbued  him, 
just  as  in  the  case  of  Dickens,  with  a  curiosity  to  know 
and  understand  mankind,  and  the  result,  as  shown  in 
such  stories  as  Helen  with  the  High  Hand,  Buried  Alive, 
Anna  of  the  Five  Towns,  Old  Wives'  Tale,  Clayhanger 
and  Hilda  Lessways  is  the  conviction  that  life  is  deeid- 

387 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

edly  somber  sometimes,  decidedly  humorous  at  other 
times,  and  decidedly  interesting  all  the  time.  When 
occasion  demands,  as  in  Old  Wives'  Tale  and  Clay- 
hanger y  he  uses  a  relentless  realism  that  is  almost  oppres- 
sive. In  the  little  field  chosen  by  Bennett — the  ^^Five 
Towns" — there  may  be  narrowness,  lack  of  the  cultural 
and  artistic,  a  surplus  of  the  monotonous;  but  there  is 
undeniably  the  charm  of  individuality.  And  though 
these  people  may  happen  to  live  in  such  an  environment, 
their  traits  are  none  the  less  universal. 

'*  Arnold  Bennett  .  .  .  has  made  the  discovery, 
which  Balzac  made  before  him,  that  there  is  no  cleavage 
between  life  and  romance,  but  that,  properly  speaking, 
life  is  romance.  ...  He  has  contrived  to  combine 
French  vivacity  and  force  of  feeling  with  British  moral- 
ity and  self -poise.     .     .     .     He  has  the  time-spirit  in  the 

best  of  his  work,  which  will  withstand  the  rust  of 
time.  "2a 

These  writers  have  interested  and  entertained  a  read- 
ing public  of  immense  numbers ;  but  only  a  few  of  them 
have  reached  far  down  into  the  depths  of  life  in  such  an 
impressive  manner  as  to  insure  lasting  fame.  Perhaps 
of  them  all  Zangwill,  Hewlett,  and  Bennett  have  come 
nearest  to  that  masterly  view  of  important  phases  of  life 
such  as  we  expect  of  true  genius. 

CONAN   DOYLE 

In  inventive  power  and  ingenuity  few  men  of  the 
nineteenth  or  twentieth  century  have  excelled  Sir  Ar- 
thur Conan  Doyle,  author  of  the  famous  Sherlock 
Holmes  stories.     It  is  reported  that  Doyle  is  sometimes 

2aConingsby  Dawson  in  Booh  News  Monthly,  1911,  pp.  567-9. 

388 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

chagrined  that  he  should  be  more  noted  for  these  de- 
tective tales  than  for  his  more  deep  and  serious  produc- 
tions, such  as  A  Study  in  Scarlet,  The  Sign  of  the  Four, 
The  White  Company,  and  The  Great  Shadow;  but  it 
is  nevertheless  probable  that  his  most  lasting  fame  will 
be  based  on  those  tales  of  intrigue  and  shrewd  scheming, 
The  Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  The  Memoirs  of 
Sherlock  Holmes,  and  The  Return  of  Sherlock  Holmes, 
In  spite  of  the  doctor-novelist's  efforts  to  kill  off  the 
astute  detective,  the  people  will  not  let  the  hero  die,  but 
call  again  and  again  for  his  return. 

Doyle,  like  Dumas,  owes  much  to  Poe  in  this  business  of 
making  and  solving  riddles.  There  may  not  be  any  great 
amount  of  the  philosophy  of  life  in  such  efforts;  the 
author  may  not  have  opportunities  to  show  a  varied 
delineation  of  characters;  but  that  supreme  skill  and 
great  technical  art  may  be  displayed  in  such  work  has 
been  proved  by  both  Poe  and  Doyle.  And  it  should 
be  remembered  that  this  continued  study  of  one  hero 
may  result  in  a  character  of  permanent  literary  value. 
Sherlock  Holmes  is  to-day  as  living  a  personality  to 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  readers  as  Pickwick  or  Becky 
Sharp.  Moreover,  this  vivid  relating  of  but  one  epi- 
sode at  a  time  in  the  character 's  life  makes  the  narrative 
a  perfect  specimen  of  the  short  story,  a  type  that  dif- 
ferentiates itself  rather  strictly  from  the  novel,  not  by 
its  shortness,  but  by  the  fact  that  it  reviews  only  one 
of  the  critical  moments  in  a  life.  Conan  Doyle  in  his 
conciseness,  his  vividness,  his  logical,  closely  woven  plots, 
his  use  of  the  mysterious,  his  ingenious  solutions,  and  his 
knowledge  of  what  to  leave  out,  will  probably  long  be 
considered  a  master  of  the  short-story  form. 

389 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

WRITERS   OF   VERY   RECENT   FAME 

With  the  exception  of  Kipling,  the  writers  now  to 
be  discussed  are  of  very  recent  fame.  Because,  there- 
fore, of  the  lack  of  that  proper  perspective  gained  only 
by  the  intervention  of  years,  it  is  deemed  best  to  add 
to  my  own  views  some  criticisms  from  various  literary 
periodicals.  The  reader  might  find  it  of  interest  to 
gather  views  of  this  sort  about  nearly  all  the  novelists 
mentioned  in  this  chapter,  and  thus  discover  for  him- 
self what  the  true  consensus  of  public  opinion  is  con- 
cerning these  '*new  lights."  It  should  constantly  be 
borne  in  mind  that  the  following  criticisms  are  personal 
opinions,  and  may  not  by  any  means  agree  with  the 
views  of  all  other  students  of  English  fiction. 

HERBERT   GEORGE  WELLS 

Herbert  George  Wells  (1866 — )  in  his  early  work 
surprised  the  English-speaking  world  with  his  puzzling 
ingenuity  and  is  surprising  it  no  less  to-day  by  his 
puzzling  investigations  of  our  present  social  structure. 
How  matter-of-fact  the  eighteenth-century  romances  be- 
come when  compared  with  The  Stolen  Bacillus  and 
Other  Stories,  The  War  of  the  Worlds,  When  the  Sleeper 
Wakes,  In  the  Days  of  the  Comet  and  The  War  in 
the  Air!  Wells  is  a  graduate  of  a  technical  school, 
and  his  scientific  knowledge  enables  him  to  give  a  tone 
of  reality  to  his  wildest  marvels  that  almost  causes  the 
reader  to  believe  in  their  future  possibility.  There  is  a 
daring  about  some  of  this  man's  conceptions  that  well- 
nigh  staggers  us;  we  are  taken  out  beyond  the  confines 
of  dimensions  and  time. 

Wells  now  classifies  his  stories  as  romances  and  novels. 
390 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

The  romances  are,  of  course,  the  strange  narratives  men- 
tioned above.  In  his  novels  he  comes  down  to  ordinary- 
life — very  ordinary  life  indeed.  Wells  has  a  hearty  con- 
tempt for  the  bourgeoisie,  and,  as  he  is  a  socialist,  he 
does  not  hesitate  to  show  what  a  wretch  a  man  may 
become  under  the  pressure  of  modern  social  circum- 
stances. He  maintains  that  the  failure  of  the  present 
social  system  is  largely  due  to  the  ascendency  of  those 
who  inherit  wealth,  and  added  to  this,  in  his.  opinion,  is 
the  fact  that  progress  is  clogged  by  a  *' multitude  of 
impotent  folk,"  who  have  no  ideal,  who  do  not  know 
what  they  want,  and  who  merely  exist  restlessly.  In 
Tono-Bungay  Wells  strikes  bitterly  at  the  English  tra- 
dition of  the  wealth-inheriting  class,  the  tradition  that 
a  certain  family  must  be  kept  in  luxurious  leisure  at  the 
expense  of  the  common  folk  because  such  has  always 
been  the  case. 

To  Wells  there  appears  an  even  more  serious  menace. 
The  new  wealth,  acquired  by  dubious  means,  is  rapidly 
buying  up  the  inherited  feudalistic  power,  and  in  these 
raw,  often  vulgar,  new  masters  the  novelist  finds  **no 
promise  of  fresh  vitality  for  the  kingdom."  He  is  not 
chary  of  hard  blows  when  discussing  these  products  of 
modern  economic  conditions;  in  spite  of  their  humor, 
such  stories  as  Love  and  Mr,  Lewisliam,  Kipps,  and 
Mr.  Polly  are  almost  depressing  in  their  delineation  of 
contemptible  vulgarity  and  meanness.  And  Wells  him- 
self seems  almost  depressed  when  he  notes  London  ^s 
*' immense  effect  of  Purposelessness, "  how  its  millions 
demand  and  obtain  so  little  of  life,  how  they  grope 
without  an  ideal.  In  his  earlier  work  this  writer  has 
furnished  reading  for  the  romantic  reader;  he  now  of- 

391 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

fers  more  solid  food  for  the  thinker;  which  the  distant 
future  will  prefer,  is  an  open  question. 

It  is  generally  difficult  for  an  author  to  get  away 
from  his  earlier  work.  Since  several  of  Wells  ^s  first 
stories  dealt  with  the  grotesque  and  bizarre,  many  read- 
ers still  persist  in  looking  upon  him  as  a  kind  of  Eng- 
lish Jules  Yerne.  But  even  such  stories  as  The  Time 
Machine,  When  the  Sleeper  Wakes,  The  Invisible  Man, 
and  The  War  of  the  Worlds,  besides  being  decidedly 
unlike  the  Verne  productions  in  that  they  have  a  basis 
of  scientific  truth,  also  use  science  as  a  means  of  proph- 
ecy and  warning  to  an  extent  unknown  to  the  French- 
man. These  fantastic  tales,  however,  do  not  seem  to 
represent  the  real  trend  of  Wells's  genius.  We  have 
indicated  that  Love  and  Mr,  Lewisham  is  a  genuinely 
human  document;  Kipps:  The  Story  of  a  Simple  Soul 
a  masterly  portrayal  of  certain  phases  of  British  so- 
ciety; and  Tono-Bungay,  an  almost  irritatingly  realistic 
picture  of  the  irrational  structure  of  modern  social  life. 
Wells's  New  Machiavelli  is  a  still  more  bitter  story  of 
life  as  it  is,  a  treatise  rather  than  a  piece  of  fiction, 
a  narrative  that  leaves  the  reader  a  disturbed  ques- 
tioner. Taking  up  phase  after  phase  of  our  present 
restlessness,  Wells  has  become  what  we  might  term  a 
'* social  biologist."  He  is  himself  a  questioner;  he  con- 
tradicts himself;  he  sees  so  much  wrong  that  he  cannot 
write  beautifully  for  writing  honestly.  Some  day, 
doubtless,  out  of  all  these  energetic,  vehement,  bitter 
descriptions,  views,  and  reflections  he  will  weld  a  homo- 
geneous work  that  shall  stand  as  a  masterpiece,  not  only 
of  fiction,  but  of  social  portrayal.  For  he  is  an  idealist 
talking  in  realistic  terms. 

392 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

*'He  is  a  diagnostician  of  the  symptoms  of  the  grow- 
ing pains  of  our  uneasy  times — an  interpreter  of  the 
shifts  to  which  men  and  women  find  themselves  reduced 
by  the  struggles  of  the  present  in  the  swaddling  clothes 
of  the  past.  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  now  writing 
English  fiction  who  deals  with  such  stark  and  clean 
frankness  with  those  essentials  which  the  Victorian  Era 
agreed  to  eliminate  by  the  simple  process  of  never  men- 
tioning them  above  a  whisper.  There  is  on  the  whole 
no  one  in  the  field  who  sheds  more  light  where  so  much 
light  is  needed."^ 

''  [His  Imagination]  has  been  fired  by  the  topsyturvy 
spectacle  of  man's  powers  over  nature  being  indefinitely 
increased  by  science,  while  his  powers  over  himself  have 
been  diminished  by  the  irruption  of  incalculable  new 
forces.  What  needs  putting  under  the  laws  of  science, 
in  short,  is  modern  man  himself,  and  Mr.  Wells  is  the 
only  English  novelist  who,  with  large  and  democratic 
sympathies,  has  perceived  that  a  civilization  that  is 
guided  by  the  jerry-built  ideals  of  an  ignorant  de- 
mocracy and  of  plutocratic  cunning  is  running  counter 
to  the  laws  of  social  health. ' '  * 

*  *  He  is  not  always  the  purest  of  artists,  and  his  analy- 
sis is  not  always  free  from  bias,  but  his  criticisms  of 
the  topsyturvydom  of  pragmatism  and  folly  are  funda- 
mentally and  everlastingly  true. ' '  ^ 

*^The  bigger  the  problem  the  more  eagerly  he  attacks 

8  Quoted  from  the  New  York  Times  in  Current  Literature,  Vol. 
50,  p.  451. 

4  Edward  Garnett  as  quoted  by  G.  W.  Harris,  Review  of  Re- 
views, Vol.  40,  p.  508. 

B  Harris,  Ihid, 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

it.  ...  He  is  ...  in  deadly  earnest,  and  out 
of  his  innumerable  blows  upon  the  present  state  of  edu- 
cation, of  political  life,  of  social  life,  many  are  bound 
to  hit  their  mark  and  to  leave  our  ears  ringing. ' '  ® 

A.    C.    BENSON 

Two  brothers  who  are  writing  with  an  art  that  is 
decidedly  promising  are  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 
(1862—)  and  Edward  Frederic  Benson  (1867—). 
Arthur  Benson  is  beyond  contradiction  one  of  the 
most  potent  forces  in  contemporary  English  literature. 
Those  who  have  read  The  Upton  Letters,  From  a  Col- 
lege Window,  and  Beside  Still  Waters  know  what  a 
depth  of  repose,  what  a  love  for  nature,  what  a  regard 
for  the  old,  the  traditional,  the  things  that  have  been 
tried  and  found  true,  rest  in  this  man.  He  comes  to 
us  with  the  calming  voice  so  acutely  needed  in  this  day 
of  mad  hastening  and  loud-mouthed  turmoil.  Calling 
a  halt  to  our  feverish  rushing  hither  and  thither,  he 
shows  the  emptiness  of  our  soul-killing  struggle  for 
position,  wealth,  and  fame.  Many  readers  have  dis- 
covered in  his  works  a  certain  weariness  of  the  world 
of  activities ;  but  while  this  and  a  tinge  of  sadness  may 
be  present,  he  never  speaks  as  a  pessimist. 

The  sanity  of  the  man  is  refreshing.  Long  a  master 
at  Eton,  he  talks  or  rather  meditates  with  an  air  of 
authority,  with  a  quality  bom  of  an  aristocracy  of 
culture.  And  yet  while  his  personality  shines  through 
every  page,  Benson  never  thrusts  his  opinions  upon  one ; 
always  his  frankness  and  his  '^ sweet  reasonableness'' 
overpower  us  and  induce  us  to  become  his  disciples  long 

«  Current  Literature,  Vol.  50,  p.  452. 

394 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

before  the  book  is  closed.  His  is  a  strong  intellect, 
mellowed  by  understanding  and  intense  sympathy. 
Meditations  on  moods — these  are  his  themes;  indeed 
these  make  his  books  more  nearly  essays  than  novels, 
and  yet  they  are  stories  of  a  soul.  They  are  the  in- 
trospective reviews  of  a  high-minded  man^s  spiritual 
progress — a  man  with  a  deep-seated  interest  in  the 
esthetic  and  the  ethical,  and  one  who  would  have  all 
other  men  interested  also.  It  would  seem  to  be  a  hope- 
less task  to  lure  the  ** average  reader"  to  these  higher 
realms  of  thought;  but  Arthur  Benson  does  it  with  a 
style  as  persuasive  as  any  written  by  the  great  masters 
of  nineteenth-century  prose.  Whether  the  world  in- 
crease its  mad  gait,  or  whether  it  become  calmer,  his 
books  are  of  a  sorely  needed  type, — in  the  one  case  to 
warn,  in  the  other  to  delight. 

*'Mr.  [Arthur]  Benson  is  of  a  sensitive,  reflecting, 
confiding  temperament  which  shrinks  from  whatever  is 
brusque  and  rough  and  uncompromising.  He  is  not 
really  effeminate,  but  boyish,  eager,  ingenuous.  There 
is  an  air  of  wistfulness  about  his  confidences  which  is 
very  winning.  ...  He  has  the  balancing  instinct, 
his  imagination  is  sufficiently  flexible  to  bring  the  for  and 
the  against  into  sometimes  embarrassing  juxtaposition. 
.  .  .  The  fault  that  must  be  found  in  Mr.  Benson's 
work  as  a  whole  is  precisely  that  it  is  inconclusive,  very 
amiable,  very  engaging,  very  helpful  to  people  who  stand 
in  need  of  a  mild  sedative;  but  not  really  stimulating, 
not  really  .  .  .  convincing.  ...  If  Mr.  Benson 
has  no  robust  philosophy  of  life,  if  he  is  not  quite  fitted 
to  be  the  spiritual  father  of  a  flock,  he  has,  more  than  any 
of  his  contemporaries,  the  faculty  of  intimate  discourse, 

395 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

of  winning  sympathy  through  frank  and  human  con- 
fession. ' '  '^ 

^^He  is  not  a  preacher;  he  is  essentially  an  artist. 
He  lets  the  truth  enforce  itself.  His  endeavor  is  to  set 
it  forth  with  perfect  sincerity  and  with  vivid  charm. 
He  is  reverent  of  the  traditions  of  the  past,  but  not  in 
any  sense  a  slave  to  their  authority.  .  .  .  (He) 
sees  life  sanely  and  with  warm  human  sympathies,  and 
envelops  his  readers  in  an  atmosphere  of  rest  and 
thoughtfulness,  in  a  style  at  once  fluent,  accurate,  and 
beautiful  without  over-emphasis  or  exaggeration. "  ^ 

*'He  is  without  the  slightest  stretch  of  the  imagina- 
tion one  of  the  potent  forces  to-day  in  English  litera- 
ture. .  .  .  Mr.  Benson  expresses  a  great  thought  in 
great  language  with  consummate  ease.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Benson  tries  to  sanctify  suffering.  .  .  .  He  is  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity  of  closer  acquaintance  with  it. 
.  .  .  [His  work]  is  the  essence  of  a  mellowed  in- 
tellect; the  keener  for  the  classic  association;  the  ten- 
derer for  the  human  feeling.  .  .  .  Somehow,  by  an 
almost  supernatural  instinct  he  sees  into  the  soul  of  the 
struggling  man  and  woman  and  discovers  its  bareness. 
And  having  seen  its  destitution,  he  covers  it  tenderly 
with  the  unction  from  his  well  of  sympathy. ' '  ^ 

E.   F.   BENSON 

E.  F.  Benson  has  much  the  same  fine  poetic  nature, 
coloring,  and  quiet  charm  as  his  brother ;  but  his  humor 
and  gaiety  are  more  evident.     Mammon  and  Co.,  The 

7H.  W.  Boynton,  Bookmcm,  Vol.  26,  pp.  305-307. 

8  Outlook,  Vol.  85,  p.  399. 

9  Matthew  Cripps,  Booh  News  Monthly,  Vol.  27,  p.  659. 

396 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

Princess  Sophia,  The  Image  in  the  Sand,  The  Angel 
of  Pain,  and  A  Reaping  are  books  that  have  brought 
not  only  entertainment,  but  soul-satisfaction  to  many 
a  reader.  Notice  for  a  moment  this  last-mentioned 
book,  A  Reaping,  How  the  strife  and  the  bitterness 
of  the  world  are  forgotten  in  these  pages!  An  un- 
selfish man  is  married  to  an  unselfish  woman;  each  is 
a  perfect  complement  to  the  other.  The  daily  moods, 
the  quiet  happiness,  the  fullness  of  their  domestic  peace 
are  depicted  with  a  beauty  that  teaches  us,  not  what 
we  are,  alas,  but  what  we  might  be.  With  such  a 
theme  goes  a  love  of  nature  that  brings  new  life  to 
the  pent-up  soul.  Sadness  is  not  absent;  death  enters 
this  domestic  heaven;  but  the  shadows  go  in  and  out 
through  the  sunlight  so  silently,  so  softly,  that  we  come 
forth  from  a  reading  of  the  book  filled  and  strengthened 
with  a  new  satisfaction  and  a  firm  belief  that  all  might 
be  well  if  we  would  but  have  it  so.  Can  the  helpful- 
ness of  such  work  in  this  day  of  shrillness  be  denied? 

If  space  permitted,  much  might  be  said  of  the  merits 
of  such  new  writers  as  John  CoUis  Snaith,  author  of 
Broke  of  Covenden,  Patricia  at  the  Inn  *'nd  The  Way- 
farer; we  might  tarry  to  speak  of  the  strength  and 
symbolism  of  John  Tre vena's  Dartmoor  stories.  Heather 
and  Furze  the  Cruel;  or  we  might  try  to  explain  the 
intricate  wheel-within-a-wheel  method  of  William  De 
Morgan,  whose  Joseph  Vance,  Alice  for  Short,  Somehow 
Good,  and  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again  are  such  a  skilful 
mingling  of  the  ludicrous  and  the  pathetic,  and  whose 
people  seem  not  created  but  simply  transferred  from 
life  to  the  printed  book. 

Three  novelists  whose  books  have  already  a  wide  read- 
397 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ing  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  whose  artis- 
tic powers  are  still  developing  are  Eden  Phillpotts 
(1862—),  William  John  Locke  (1863—),  and  Sir  Ar- 
thur T.  Quiller-Couch  (1863—). 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Eden  Phillpotts 's  first  notable  success  came  with  his 
Children  of  the  Mist.  Here  he  had  found  his  atmos- 
phere. In  the  Dartmoor  district  of  Devonshire  with 
its  ancient  ruins,  its  almost  prehistoric  stone  bridges, 
and  its  sudden  elevations  or  *'tors,"  as  the  plain  people 
there  call  them,  he  found  a  landscape  and  a  folk  that 
he  could  love.  Whenever  he  has  departed  from  these — 
as  in  his  seaport  story,  The  Haven — ^he  has  done  work 
of  an  inferior  quality.  That  Phillpotts  is  in  close  sym- 
pathy with  the  Devonshire  scenes  and  people  is  always 
evident.  John  Trevena,  living  in  the  same  region,  and 
describing  the  same  peasantry,  has  written  in  his  earlier 
work  as  an  alien,  as  one  not  quite,  but  wanting  to  be, 
in  full  sympathy  with  them ;  Phillpotts  identifies  himself 
with  his  neighbors.  The  very  title  of  his  first  highly 
successful  book.  Children  of  the  Mist,  is  symbolic  of 
the  immature  characters  with  whom  he  walks  and  talks 
daily. 

In  this  book,  in  The  Biver,  The  Mother  of  the  Man, 
My  Devon  Year,  The  Folk  Afield,  and  in  all  the  others 
dealing  with  the  moors  about  his  home,  he  seems  intensely 
impressed  with  the  effect  of  environment  upon  a  soul's 
growth.  It  is  through  their  surroundings  that  he  an- 
alyzes with  such  subtle  psychology  the  moods  and  the 
intellect  of  his  people.  It  is  this  that  gives  the  touches 
of  solemnity,  the  mystery,  the  weirdness,  the  tender- 

398 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

ness,  and  the  tragedy  to  his  tales.  Phillpotts  is  hon* 
estly  and  always  realistic ;  but  the  pessimism  or  cynicism 
that  so  often  accompanies  realism  is  foreign  to  his  na- 
ture. As  he  looks  out  upon  the  simple  folk  wandering 
over  the  moorland,  he  cannot  believe  that  they  are  es- 
sentially debased,  inherently  wicked ;  they  are  but  unde- 
veloped, but  ^* children  of  the  mist." 

*'He  is  a  minor  Thomas  Hardy,  but  much  more.  He 
has  a  like  joy  in  the  face  and  heart  of  the  earth,  and 
he  gets  very  close  to  the  secret  that  remains  hers,  how- 
ever we  try  to  surprise  it.  .  .  .  Mr.  Phillpotts  gives 
us  noble  landscapes,  honest,  faithful,  impressive,  which 
he  clearly  does  from  loving  to  do  them,  and  which  are 
as  far  as  could  be  from  what  a  simpler  age  than  this 
used  to  prize  as  'word-painting.'  .  .  .  But  they  do 
not  take  the  eye  or  hold  the  memory  like  those  counter- 
feit presentments  of  people  in  which  he  excels.  .  .  . 
He  makes  them  so  true  that  you  have  only  to  go  to  your 
own  knowledge  of  yourself  and  of  others  for  the  proof 
of  them.  .  .  .  Nobody  is  quite  like  him  in  his  skill 
of  realizing  them.  ...  He  penetrates  recesses  of 
the  heart  not  hitherto  explored  and  deals  with  fresh 
surface  facts  of  life  in  a  way  he  seems  to  have  found 
out  for  himself.  The  mystery  of  art  as  of  life  is  in 
the  static  things;  to  them  we  go  back  and  rest  and  re- 
fresh ourselves  in  them  after  the  moving  forces  have 
swept  us  helpless  to  the  end.  It  is  in  the  abundance  of 
these  static  things  that  the  lasting  charm  of  this  new 
great  novelist  exists.  "^^ 

''Two  qualities  are  more  noticeable  in  Mr.  Phillpotts 's 
work.     .     .     .     There  is  an  intimate  and  loving  com- 

10  W.  D.  Howells,  North  American  Revieic,  1910,  pp.  15-22. 

399 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

prehension  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  even  an  ardent 
glorying  in  them,  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  innate  dignity 
of  the  human  soul.  .  .  .  Mr.  Phillpotts  is  a  master 
of  word-painting  of  landscape;  among  the  best  of  those 
now  writing  there  are  few  who  equal  him.  ...  A 
different  village  is  the  scene  of  each  separate  book,  but 
the  sort  of  people  remains  the  same.  .  .  .  It  is  in 
the  portrayal  of  the  completed  type  that  he  excels ;  even 
among  his  leading  characters  in  several  books  there  are 
but  three  who  develop  and  progress  in  spiritual  change 
or  growth  before  our  eyes.  This  of  course  is  in  itself 
a  falling  short  of  true  greatness  in  the  creative  artist, 
but  it  is  a  sign  of  power  in  Mr.  Phillpotts 's  writing  that 
his  characters  hold  our  interest  even  though  they  are 
so  true  to  themselves  that  we  know  just  what  to  expect 
of  them  after  we  have  become  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  them."^i 

W.   J.   LOCKE 

W.  J.  Locke  has  written  some  remarkable  character 
novels  in  his  Derelicts,  The  Usurpers,  The  Morals  of 
Marcus  Ordeyne,  The  Beloved  Vagabond,  and  Simon 
the  Jester,  Unlike  Trevena  and  Phillpotts,  he  is  not 
particular  as  to  his  environments;  London  or  any  other 
city  where  an  abundance  of  social  life,  political  activi- 
ties, and  contrasting  types  of  men  may  be  found,  suits 
his  purpose.  In  Simon  the  Jester,  for  instance,  we 
find  a  strange  mingling  of  business  and  social  life,  with 
a  circus  performer  introducing  a  third  form  of  ex- 
istence, and  these,  with  an  inspiring  love  theme  and  a 
man's  battle  against  ill  health  and  seemingly  certain 

11  Grace  Colborn,  Forum,  Vol.  39,  pp.  543-545. 

400 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

death,  make  up  a  story  full  of  animation  and  keen  in- 
terest. Locke  has  the  ability  to  shade  off  his  humor 
into  pathos — ^to  cause  laughter  to  melt  into  tears  and 
distress  to  rise  into  happiness.  These  are,  of  course, 
worthy  gifts ;  but  his  power  in  the  art  of  creating  char- 
acters that  stand  forth  with  living  personality — this 
is  likely  to  cause  him  to  be  remembered  long  after 
many  of  his  fellow  novelists.  For  the  ability  to  add 
an  original  character  to  the  galaxy  of  vividly  real 
figures  in  literature  is  a  pretty  fair  indication  of  long 
fame. 

''Mr.  Locke's  best  work  is  in  his  men.  In  five  books 
he  has  created  a  blood  brotherhood  of  five — various  in 
outward  circumstances  and  the  accidents  of  fortune, 
but  one  in  spirit.  They  are  gentle,  philosophic,  chival- 
rous vagabonds  from  the  conventions  of  the  world  they 
live  in.  One  and  all  they  avoid  the  humdrum  responsibili- 
ties which  a  stereotyped  society  imposes  on  present-day 
sons  of  men;  and  one  and  all,  when  crises  come  they 
rise  to  the  heights.  They  are  of  the  tribe  of  Quixote, 
great  souls  presenting  to  the  eyes  of  a  weary  world 
the  guise  of  suitable  lunatics.  .  .  .  The  comment 
.  .  .  has  been  made  that  Locke's  stories  are  impos- 
sible. It  is  quite  true,  the  chilly,  flavorless  element  of 
possibility  is  wanting;  but  something  much  finer  takes 
its  place.  It  is  quite  true  that  people  and  events  like 
this  do  not  happen;  but  they  ought  to.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Locke  does  not  bother  himself  about  reality,  he  is  con- 
cerned only  with  the  truth.  .  .  .  He  is  an  optimist, 
not  because  he  is  blind  to  the  evil  in  the  world  but 
because  he  sees  so  much  that  is  good  and  sees  it  so  de- 
sirable. He  has  the  fine  gift  of  making  virtue  attract- 
26  401 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ive,  which  is  so  much  more  worth  while  than  making 
vice  hideous. ' '  ^^ 

**A  rebellious  vein  of  romanticism,  a  love  of  the  Quix- 
otic, a  tender  chivalry,  an  indulgent  irony;  these  are 
some  of  the  qualities  possessed  by  his  most  characteristic 
volumes.  .  .  .  What  ultimately  happens  to  his  char- 
acters is  of  minor  consideration;  what  they  think  and 
say  and  do  from  day  to  day  makes  up  the  vital  interest. 
.  .  .  His  heroes  are  often  purposely,  extravagantly, 
incredibly  Quixotic.  .  .  .  And  the  fact  that  the 
reader  accepts  their  most  preposterous  actions  with 
equanimity  and  even  with  approval  is  Mr.  Locke's  suf- 
ficient justification.  ...  It  is  with  a  mist  before 
the  eyes  and  laughter  in  the  soul  that  one  reads  many 
of  the  best  pages  of  Mr.  "William  John  Locke. ' '  ^^ 

**He  has  peopled  the  realms  of  his  fancy  with  living, 
breathing,  sentient  creatures.  .  .  .  Their  doings, 
their  sayings,  their  very  thoughts  have  an  almost  start- 
ling verisimilitude,  despite  the  fact  that  the  protagonists 
of  his  dramas  are  invariably  among  the  oddest,  most 
quaintly  freakish  and  fantastical  strangers  to  conven- 
tionality of  all  the  heroes  of  English  fiction.  .  .  . 
Indeed,  he  gives  freer  rein  to  his  own  idiosyncrasies 
than  any  other  living  story-teller  with  whose  work  I 
happen  to  be  acquainted. ' '  ^* 

QUnjLER-COUCH 

Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch,  better  known  as  '^Q,"  is 
famous  among  American  readers  as  a  story-writer;  but 

12  Outlook,  Vol.  99,  p.  259. 

13  Frederic  Taber  Cooper,  Bookman,  Vol.  24,  pp.  602-604. 

14  G.  W.  Harris,  Review  of  Reviews,  Vol.  41,  pp.  376-377. 

402 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

England  knows  him  favorably  as  critic,  essayist,  and 
poet  also.  Of  Comisli  blood,  he  loves  the  Celtic  weird- 
ness,  mysticism,  romance,  fire,  and  wit,  and  probably 
his  best  work  ha^  been  done  in  dealing  with  these  traits 
as  he  has  found  them  in  the  seamen  of  Cornwall.  Troy 
Town,  The  Delectable  Duchy,  From  a  Cornish  Window, 
and  many  another  volume  have  made  the  romantic  cor- 
ners and  the  quaint  characters  of  these  shut-in,  cliff- 
surrounded  harbors  familiar  to  all  the  English-speaking 
world. 

But  Quiller-Couch  has  the  versatility,  as  well  as  the 
other  qualities  of  the  Cornish;  he  does  not  confine  his 
themes  to  the  seaports  about  his  home  nor  to  the  fisher- 
men with  whom  he  mingles  daily.  In  two  recent  works, 
for  instance,  True  Tilda  and  Lady  Good-for-Nothing, 
he  writes  as  a  man  might  who  had  spent  his  life  in 
London  or  in  some  New  England  town.  Tilda,  injured 
in  a  circus,  and  confined  for  months  in  a  hospital,  ef- 
fects the  reunion  of  a  father  and  his  son,  and  in  her 
resulting  contact  with  wealth  and  refinement,  develops 
into  an  intelligent  and  fascinating  young  lady.  This 
is  far  away  from  Cornwall,  but  Lady  Good-for-Nothing 
is  still  farther.  Here  a  strong  love  theme  links  a  New 
England  girl  of  colonial  days  with  a  British  official, 
and  the  unfailing  interest  and  the  vivid  pictures  of  Puri- 
tan life  in  America  make  it  one  of  Q  's  best. 

The  wit  of  Quiller-Couch  is  now  a  matter  of  world- 
wide information.  It  is  not  a  wit  based  merely  upon  a 
humorous  jingling  of  words;  it  is  founded  on  a  broad 
observation  and  a  wide  knowledge  of  many  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men.  ''I  love  to  smoke  and  listen  to 
other  men 's  opinions, ' '  he  once  said ;  and  he  has  listened' 

403 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

with  understanding  and  sympathy.  Add  to  this  wit 
and  this  understanding  of  humanity  a  stirring  plot, 
incisive  characterization,  an  ability  to  picture  land  and 
sea  with  the  sureness  of  an  artist,  a  spiritual  insight 
that  in  his  serious  moments  touches  the  reader's  soul 
with  its  truthfulness,  and  we  have  the  reasons  for  be- 
lieving that  the  name  of  **Q"  will  be  familiar  to  many 
future  generations  of  English-speaking  readers. 

^*  Quill  er-Couch's  writing  is  imbued  with  the  poetry 
and  mysticism  of  his  race,  and  when  he  writes  of  the 
Cornish  people  and  their  strange  characteristics  he  seems 
to  transport  us  into  their  midst. ' '  ^^ 

'^Both  in  matter  and  in  manner  he  stands  alone,  and 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  one  more  admires  the 
individuality  and  freshness  of  his  natural  gift  as  a 
raconteur  or  the  rare  mastery  of  technique  which  shapes 
and  gives  the  perfect  finish  to  his  work.  In  this  last 
respect  one  cannot  but  be  struck  by  the  air  of  verisimili- 
tude."^^ 

'^Mr.  Quiller-Couch  ...  is  the  master  of  an  ex- 
quisite art.  Earely  absent  from  his  work,  we  think 
it  more  persuasively  present  when  his  revenants  are 
bodily  than  when  they  are  spiritistic.  .  .  .  Every- 
day material,  as  this  accomplished  writer  treats  it,  is 
weird  enough  and  poetic  enough  without  his  summoning 
the  supernatural  to  its  intensifying.  .  .  .  Whichever 
story  makes  the  closest  appeal  to  the  reader,  he  will 
hardly  fail  to  find  somewhere  the  power,  poetry,  and 

15  Frances  Irwin,  Booh  Hfews  Monthly,  Vol.  28,  p.  332. 
i^Bookrrum,  Vol.  14,  p.  630. 

404 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

dramatic  instinct  without  morbidness,  of  which  a  book 
by  this  writer  always  holds  the  promise. '' ^"^ 

*'A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  .  .  .  makes  stories  that  are 
full  of  vigor  and  invention;  romantic  in  temperament, 
yet  realistic  in  their  close  observation  and  in  the  under- 
standing sympathy  with  which  he  studies  the  life  of 
humble  folk  and  the  types  and  scenes  of  his  native 
country.  .  .  .  His  novels  and  short  tales  in  spirit 
and  method  affiliate  him  with  Barrie,  Kipling,  and  Stev- 
enson, and  he  is  little  inferior  to  them  in  strength  and 
originality;  .  .  .  the  unpleasant  realism  and  the 
decadent  pessimism  of  the  day  he  stands  quite  apart 
from.  .  .  .  The  work  of  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  is  refu- 
tation of  the  charge  that  the  end  of  the  century  in 
English  literature  has  nothing  to  offer  but  the  morbid 
and  unwholesome."  ^^ 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

Many  discerning  students  of  literature  look  upon  John 
Galsworthy  (1867 — )  as  the  most  promising  of  all  the 
young  British  fiction-writers  who  have  risen  to  fame 
since  Kipling.  In  such  stories  as  Jocelyn  (1898),  Villa 
Ruhein  (1900),  A  Man  of  Devon  (1901),  The  Island 
Pharisees  (1904),  The  Man  of  Property  (1906),  and 
The  Country  House  (1907),  as  well  as  in  such  dramas 
as  The  Silver  Box  and  Strife y  we  may  discover  an  ear- 
nestness, a  keenness  of  observation,  a  vividness  of  char- 
acterization, and  a  style  that  demand  admiration. 

n  Nation,  Vol.  72,  p.  97. 

18  Warner's  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature,  VoL  20, 
pp.  11,947-8. 

405 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Galsworthy  has  been  called  *^a  novelist  who  disdains 
the  plot, ' '  and  to  him  the  plot  is  indeed  a  matter  of  sec- 
ondary importance.  But  whatever  may  be  lacking  in  this 
particular  is  more  than  compensated  by  his  humor,  his 
keen  satire,  the  distinctness  of  his  characters,  and  the 
assurance  with  which  he  attacks  and  analyzes  the  social 
questions  agitating  his  nation.  In  Fraternity,  for  in- 
stance, the  story  resolves  itself  into  a  question  as  to 
what  the  leisure  classes,  who  have  opportunity  for  cul- 
ture, are  going  to  do  for  the  folk  whose  unceasing 
struggle  for  bread  precludes  such  culture.  Again,  in 
The  Island  Pharisees  we  see  English  pharisaism  through 
the  eyes  of  an  idle  young  gentleman  of  wealth,  who  be- 
comes so  disgusted  with  it  all  that  he  well-nigh  breaks 
connection  with  the  entire  social  system.  The  Country 
House,  generally  considered  Galsworthy's  best  work, 
has  the  same  minimum  of  plot,  but  perhaps  an  even 
greater  restless  questioning  as  to  the  why  and  whither 
of  present  economic  and  social  conditions. 

There  are  some  masterly  pictures  in  these  stories  of 
modern  English  discontent.  Note  but  this  extract, — 
the  description  of  a  baby  in  an  unhappy  household,  as 
portrayed  in  Fraternity, 

'  ^  His  little  fists  and  nose  and  forehead,  even  his  naked, 
crinkled  feet  were  thrust  with  all  his  feeble  strength 
against  his  mother's  bosom,  as  though  he  were  striving 
to  creep  into  some  hole  away  from  life.  There  was  a 
sort  of  dumb  despair  in  that  tiny  pushing  of  his  way 
back  to  the  place  whence  he  had  come.  His  head,  cov- 
ered with  dingy  down,  quivered  with  his  effort  to  es- 
cape. -I 

406  ^ 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

'*He  had  been  alive  so  little:  that  little  had  suf- 
ficed." 

The  man  who  can  sketch  such  a  scene  is  capable  of 
striking  hard.  John  Galsworthy  has  not  spared;  in 
spite,  therefore,  of  his  distinct  prose  rhythm  and  lit- 
erary art,  he  is  considered  by  some  critics  as  inflexible, 
harsh  in  color,  and  lacking  in  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of 
life.  Perhaps  his  themes  and  the  principles  he  espouses 
demand  such  results;  but  the  fact  remains  that  with 
commonplace  people  and  commonplace  scenes  he  gives 
astonishing  reality — a  reality  that  may  be  too  true  to  be 
entirely  comfortable.  So  far  he  has  been  a  destroyer 
of  traditions  and  ideals;  whether  he  is  a  constructive 
leader  remains  to  be  seen. 

ROBERT   HICHENS 

In  the  work  of  Robert  Smythe  Hichens  (1864 — )  we 
find  a  type  of  romance  as  intensely  interesting  as  that 
produced  in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  yet  a  romance  containing  a  distinctly  modern  note. 
The  Folly  of  Eustace^  Tongues  of  Conscience,  The 
Woman  with  the  Fan,  The  Oar  den  of  Allah,  The  Call 
of  the  Blood,  The  Spirit  in  Prison,  Bella  Donna,  and 
Dwellers  on  the  Threshold  satisfy  our  natural  human 
craving  for  the  romantic,  and  yet  command  serious 
thought.  For  Hichens  has  what  many  romancers  lack, 
ability  for  keen  analysis  of  character.  Subtlety  is  his 
also ;  but  he  gains  what  many  of  the  subtle  fail  to  grasp, 
the  epic  view  of  life.  Then,  too,  in  the  dreamiest  mo- 
ment of  romance  he  never  loses  his  touch  of  realism. 

Choosing  characters  filled  with  the  restlessness  of 
407 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

modern  life,  he  frequently  places  them  among  the  mys- 
terious environments  of  a  far  land.  By  such  a  method 
the  setting  becomes  a  vital  element  in  the  story,  and 
possesses  and  lends  fascination.  An  extraordinary  tal- 
ent for  describing  scenery  rarely  fails  to  make  his  at- 
mospheres impressive.  In  The  Garden  of  Allah,  as  in 
Barhary  Sheep,  the  characters  seem  to  be  the  inevitable 
product  of  the  desert ;  in  The  Call  of  the  Blood  we  can- 
not escape  the  joyous,  abandoned  spirit  of  Sicily.  And 
yet  this  atmosphere  apparently  is  not  the  result  of 
lengthy,  concrete  descriptions ;  rather  it  is  the  sum  total 
of  vague  hints  and  touches  of  the  mysterious. 

Complaint  has  been  heard  that  some  of  Hichens's 
later  work  is  too  conversational  and  long  drawn-out.  It 
has  been  noted  just  as  frequently,  however,  that  the 
concentrated  intensity  of  the  latter  half  of  such  novels 
more  than  compensates  for  the  deliberateness  of  the 
earlier  pages.  Generally  his  style  is  direct;  we  seldom 
grope  for  the  meaning.  Two  traits  alone,  of  which  he 
seems  to  be  master — dramatic  intensity  and  the  psychic 
effect  of  environment — ^will  counterbalance  any  defects 
discovered  by  his  critics. 

''Certainly  he  is  among  the  few  who  are  gifted  with 
a  faculty  developed  to  the  point  of  genius.  His  imagina- 
tion is  almost  abnormally  strong.  He  has  at  bottom  a 
great  power  of  dreaming,  and  while  he  is  realistic,  he 
excels  realism  in  that  he  sees  things  with  something  of 
the  exalted  perception  of  one  in  a  vision.  Each  episode 
of  his  stories  carries  with  it,  as  in  a  dream,  a  sense  of 
prophecy,  of  'expectancy,  vague  but  persistent.'  .  .  . 
Instead  of  rousing  us  to  fresh  questionings  and  uneasy 
reflections,   Mr.   Hichens's   romances   bear  us   steadily 

408 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

onward,  with  a  sense  of  drifting  upon  a  strong,  invisible 
current,  which  lulls  the  mind  with  an  almost  narcotic 
effect  and  holds  the  imagination  spellbound. "  ^^ 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

The  prince  of  twentieth-century  British  story-tellers 
is  one  of  the  youngest  of  them.  Rudyard  Kipling  was 
born  in  1865;  but  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century 
he  has  been  producing  fiction  and  poetry  so  original 
and  so  close  to  humanity  that  readers  ignorant  of  his 
life  might  easily  conjecture  that  he  is  old  in  both  years 
and  wisdom.  To  Westerners,  there  is  always  something 
mysterious  and  mystical  associated  with  the  ancient  land 
of  India,  and  Kipling,  evidently  infused  with  these  traits 
of  the  country  in  which  he  was  bom,  has,  in  spite  of  his 
realistic  descriptions  of  it,  deepened  the  spell  that  hovers 
over  it.  When,  in  our  reading  we  come  with  him  to 
the  gigantic  ruins  of  a  city  in  the  jungles  where  monkeys 
chatter  in  the  king's  council  chamber;  when  we  see 
the  giant  Afghans  battling  with  the  sturdy  British 
privates;  when,  on  the  road  to  Mandalay  we  hear  the 
elephants  tramping  in  the  slush ;  when  at  night  we  look 
up  into  the  vast  heavens  and  hear  at  the  same  time 
the  laugh  from  the  barracks  or  camp  and  the  scream 
of  wild  animals  in  the  jungle,  we  feel  that  surely  this 
is  romance.  But  when,  on  the  other  hand,  we  swelter 
in  the  maddening  heat  of  the  Punjab,  or  listen  to  the 
rude  and  vigorous  stories  as  told  by  Mulvaney;  or  hear 
the  latest  gossip  running  through  the  army  post,  we  are 
just  as  apt  to  say,  ^^This  is  surely  realism. '^ 

i»  G.  H.  Gaines,  Harper's  Weekly,  vol.  51,  p.  1200. 

409 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  truth  is  Kipling  is  both  realistic  and  romantic. 
In  his  descriptions  of  scenes,  army  life,  British  soldiers, 
and  '*  civilized ''  natives,  he  is  likely  to  be  accurate  to 
the  smallest  detail;  but  one  glance  at  the  deep,  for- 
bidding jungle,  and  all  the  mysticism  and  romance  of 
his  nature  are  aroused,  and  then  we  have  stories  almost 
as  heroic  as  any  by  Scott,  and  as  weird  as  any  by  Poe. 
The  dark,  almost  hideous  fascination  of  the  serpents  and 
monkeys  outwitting  one  another  in  the  vast  inland  deeps 
has  never  been  excelled  in  any  literature.  The  ancient 
wisdom  of  these  jungle  denizens  as  seen  in  The  Jungle 
Booh,  Kim,  and  similar  volumes  has  something  almost 
terrifying  in  its  unearthliness.  Turn,  however,  to  the 
love  affairs  of  Mulvaney  and  Dinah,  to  the  barrack 
scenes  in  Plain  Talcs  from  the  Hills,  or  to  the  animated 
pages  of  Captains  Courageous,  and  we  know  that  Eud- 
yard  Kipling  can  view  modern  life  with  eyes  undimmed 
by  any  glamour  of  romance.  But  the  glory  of  the  man 
lies  in  this  very  fact  that  he  can  see  within  the  stern 
realities  of  existence  all  the  romance  one  could  desire. 
He  compels  us  to  see  the  poetry  in  present-day  things. 

With  this  keen  observation,  strong  imagination,  and 
daring  fancy  goes  a  singular  art  that  seems  most  simple 
yet  is  almost  impossible  of  imitation.  In  delineation 
of  character  Kipling  gives  but  a  few  vivid  descriptive 
words,  a  few  exceedingly  suggestive  hints,  and  the  being 
stands  distinctly  before  us.  His  adjectives,  some  of 
which  he  seems  to  have  invented,  are  not  always  beau- 
tiful, but  they  make  a  sound  that  leaves  no  doubt  as 
to  their  meaning.  In  his  plot  he  is  surprisingly  simple ; 
one  wonders  why  somebody  else  had  not  told  the  story 
long  before.    The  virility,  the  animation,  the  realistic  set- 

410 


TWENTIETH-CENTURY  FICTION 

tings,  the  closeness  of  the  author  to  his  story,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  the  glamour  of  distant  romance  mingled 
with  it  all — these  save  the  plot  from  any  suggestion  of 
baldness.  In  every  form  of  fiction,  from  the  story 
of  two  or  three  pages  to  the  volume  of  several  hundred, 
Kipling  has  been  a  success;  his  knowledge  of  men,  his 
descriptive  power,  his  art  in  the  making  of  plot,  his  un- 
failing vividness  of  characterization,  and  his  genius  for 
creating  an  atmosphere  mark  him  as  one  of  the  British 
masters  of  fiction. 


411 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

This  Bibliography  is  intended  merely  to  be  suggestive,  and  is, 
of  course,  by  no  means  exhaustive. 

Fiction  in  General 

Arnold:  Maniial  of  English  Literature;  Besant:  Art  of  Fic- 
tion; Brooke:  Early  English  Literature,  English  Literature  from 
the  Beginning  to  the  'Norman  Conquest;  Cambridge  History  of 
English  Literature;  Canby:  Short  Story  in  English;  Chambers: 
Cyclopcedia  of  English  Literature;  Chandler:  Literature  of 
Roguery;  Courthope:  History  of  English  Poetry;  Craik:  Eng- 
lish Prose;  Crawford:  The  Novel:  What  It  Is;  Cross:  Develop- 
ment of  the  English  Novel;  Cunliflfe :  Century  Readings  in  English 
Literature;  Dawson:  Great  English  Short  Story  Writers;  Diction- 
airy  of  National  Biography;  Dunlop:  History  of  Prose  Fiction; 
Early  English  Text  Society  Publications;  English  Men  of  Letters 
Series;  Forsyth:  Novels  and  Novelists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century; 
Gerwing:  Art  of  the  Short  Story;  Gosse:  Eighteenth  Century 
Literature;  Great  Writers  Series;  Greene :  History  of  the  Eng- 
lish People;  Griswold:  Descriptive  List  of  Novels;  Hazlitt: 
English  Novelists,  Lectures  on  English  Comic  Writers;  Hamil- 
ton: Materials  and  Methods  of  Fiction;  Home:  Technique  of  the 
Novel;  Jusserand:  English  Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakespeare, 
History  of  English  Literature,  Wayfaring  Life  in  the  Middle 
Ages;  Lanier:  The  English  Novel;  Masson:  British  Novelists  and 
Their  Styles;  Matthews:  The  Short  Story;  Modern  Language 
Association  Publications;  Morley:  English  Writers;  Moulton: 
Four  Years  of  Novel  Reading;  Moulton:  Library  of  Literary 
Criticism;  Newcomer:  Twelve  Centuries  of  English  Poetry  and 
Prose;  Perry:  English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
Study  of  Prose  Fiction;  Phelps:   Essays  on  Modern  Novelists; 

413 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Raleigh:  T\he  English  "Novel;  Reeve:  Progress  of  Romcmce; 
Saintsbury:  Elizabethan  Literature,  Nineteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture; Schofield:  English  Literature  from  the  Nornum  Conquest 
to  Chaucer;  Simonds:  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Prose  Fic- 
tion; Sismondi:  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe;  Smith: 
Poets  and  Novelists;  Stephen:  Hours  in  a  Library;  Taine:  Eng- 
lish Literature;  Ten  Brink:  English  Literature;  Thackeray: 
English  Humorists;  Ticknor:  Spanish  Literature;  Tuckerman: 
English  Prose  Fiction;  Warner:  Library  of  the  World's  Best 
Literature;  Warren:  History  of  the  Novel  Previous  to  the  Sev- 
enteenth Century;  Wheeler:  Dictionary  of  Noted  Names  of  Fic- 
tion; Whipple:  Essays  and  Reviews,  Literature  of  the  Age  of 
Elizabeth;  Whitcomb:  Study  of  a  Novel, 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Period 
/.     Fiction  of  the  Period 

Brooke:  Early  English  Literature,  English  Literature  from  the 
Beginning  to  the  Norman  Conquest;  Ten  Brink:  English  Litera' 
ture. 

Widsith  (c.  450),  Gollancz's  Exeter  Book;  Guest:  English 
Rhythms;  Brooke:  Beowulf  (c.  550),  Wyatt,  Harrison  and  Sharp, 
translations  by  Hall,  Garnett,  Morris  and  Wyatt,  Earle,  Thorpe, 
Kimble,  Arnold,  etc.;  Fight  at  Finnsburg,  translated  in  Garnett's 
Beowulf;  Complain  of  Deor,  Thorpe's  Exeter  Book,  cf.  Morley, 
Brooke,  Cook  and  Tinker;  Waldhere,  Stephens*  Two  Leaves  of 
King  Waldhere' s  Lay;  Ruined  Burg,  translations  by  Earle  and 
by  Thorpe  {Exeter  Book),  cf.  Brooke,  Morley,  etc.;  Sea-Farer, 
translations  in  Brooke  and  in  Cook  and  Tinker;  Wanderer,  trans- 
lations in  Brooke,  Cook  and  Tinker,  Gollancz's  Exeter  Book; 
Caedmon's  Paraphrases  (650-680),  cf.  Brooke  and  Thorpe;  Bede's 
Ecclesiastical  History  (731),  translations  by  Giles  (Bohn)  and 
Miller  (E.  E.  T.  S.),  cf.  Cook  and  Tinker,  Morley;  Cynewulf 
(750-825)  :  Elene,  translations  by  Garnett,  Kimble  {VercelU 
Book),  cf.  Cook  and  Tinker,  Morley,  Ten  Brink,  Brooke,  etc.; 
Julia/na,  in  Gollancz's  Exeter  Book,  The  Christ,  in  Gollancz's 
Exeter  Book,  cf.  Cook  and  Tinker,  Morley,  Brooke,  etc.,  Andreas, 
in  Kimble's  VercelU  Book,  cf.  Cook  and  Tinker,  Morley,  Brooke, 
etc.,  Guthlao,  in  Gollancz's  Exeter  Book,  cf.  Morley,  Brooke,  etc., 

414 


I 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Fates  of  the  Apostles,  in  Kimble's  Vercelli  Booh,  Phoenix,  trans- 
lated by  Hall  and  by  Cook  and  Tinker,  cf.  Ten  Brink,  Morley, 
Brooke,  etc.,  Vision  of  the  Rood,  in  Kimble's  Vercelli  Book, 
translated  by  Garnett,  Cook  and  Tinker,  cf.  Brooke;  Judith  (o. 
856),  translated  by  Garnett,  Cook  and  Tinker;  Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle  (850^1154),  Thorpe  (Rolls  Series),  Giles  (E.  E.  T.  S.), 
cf.  Cook  and  Tinker,  Morley,  Brooke,  Ten  Brink,  etc.;  Battle 
of  Brunanhurh  (937),  translations  by  Tennyson,  Garnett,  Cook 
and  Tinker;  Battle  of  Maldon  (991),  translations  by  Garnett, 
Brooke,  Giles,  Hickey  {Verse  Tales),  Lumsden  {Macmillan  Magor 
zine,  March,  1887)  ;  Apollonius  of  Tyre  and  other  Greek  ro- 
mances, Thorpe,  Cook  and  Tinker,  Bohn  Library. 

II.     Fiction  about  the  Period 

Atherstone:  Sea-Kings  of  England;  Babcock:  Cian  of  the 
Chariot;  Barr:  Tekla;  Bride:  Eldric  the  Saxon;  Charles:  Crip- 
ple of  Antioch;  Church:  Burning  of  Rome,  To  the  Lions,  Two 
Thousand  Years  Ago;  Church  and  Putnam:  Count  of  the  Saxon 
Shore;  Collins:  Antonia;  Dahn:  Captive  of  the  Roman  Eagles, 
Felicitas,  Scarlet  Banner;  Davis:  A  Friend  of  CcBsar;  Dennehy: 
Alethea;  DuChaillu:  Ivan  the  Viking;  Ebers:  The  Emperor, 
Sera/phis;  Farrar:  Darkness  and  Dawn;  French:  Lance  of 
Kanana;  Gardenshire:  Lux  Eriscis;  Gould:  Domitia,  Perpetua; 
Haggard:  The  Brethren;  Hardy:  Passe  Rose;  Harrison:  Theo- 
phano;  Henty:  Beric  the  Briton,  Dragon  and  the  Raven,  Wolf 
the  Saxon;  Horton:  Constantine;  Kingsley:  Hereward,  Eypatia; 
Kouns:  Arius  the  Libyan;  Leighton:  Olaf  the  Glorious;  Liljen- 
crantz:  Thrall  of  Lief  the  Lucky;  Madison:  A  Maid  of  King 
Alfred's  Court;  Morris:  Tale  of  the  House  of  the  Wolfing s.  The 
Sundering  Flood;  Newman:  Callista;  Scheffel:  Ekkehard;  Sien- 
kiewicz:  Quo  Vadis;  Strickland:  Stories  from  History;  Taylor: 
Tales  of  the  Saxons;  Van  Dyke:  First  Christmas  Tree,  The  Lost 
Word;  Ware:  Aurelian,  Zenohia;  Waterloo:  Story  of  Ah;  Yonge: 
The  Cook  cmd  the  Captam, 


415 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  Norman  Peeiod 
I,     General 

Billings:  Guide  to  Middle  English  Met.  Romances;  Bulfimch: 
Age  of  Chivalry;  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature; 
Chambers :  Cyclopedia  of  English  Literature;  Chambers :  Medieval 
Stories;  Child:  English  and  Scotch  Ballads;  Courthope:  History 
of  English  Poetry;  Cox:  Popular  Romances  of  the  Middle  Ages; 
Craik:  English  Literature  and  Language;  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography;  Ellis:  Specimens  of  Early  Metrical  Romances;  Far- 
nell:  Lives  of  the  Troubadours;  Fletcher:  Arthurian  Material  in 
the  Chronicles;  Freeman:  Norman  Conquest;  Furnivall:  Early 
English  Poems  a/nd  Lives  of  the  Saints;  Gairdner:  Early  Chron- 
icles; Gross:  Sources  and  Literature  of  English  History;  Guest: 
Mabinogion;  Hunt:  Norman  Britain;  Hyde:  Literary  History 
of  Ireland;  Jusserand:  Literary  History  of  the  English  People, 
Wayfaring  Life  in  the  Middle  Ages;  Ker:  Epic  and  Romance; 
Laing:  Early  Metrical  Tales;  Literature  of  all  Nations  (Edited 
by  Hawthorne) ;  Manley:  English  Poetry;  Maynadier:  Arthur  of 
English  Poets;  Morley:  English  Writers,  Fables  of  Eng.  Lit,, 
Medieval  Tales;  Morris  and  Skeat:  Specimens  of  Early  English; 
Morris:  Historical  Tales;  Mosher,  J.  A.:  Exemplum  in  Early 
Relig,  Lit.  of  Eng.;  Moulton:  Library  of  Litera/ry  Criticism;  New- 
comer: Twelve  Centuries  of  English  Poetry  and  Prose;  Newell: 
King  Arthur  and  the  Table  Round;  Nutt:  Celtic  and  Medieval 
Romance;  Nutt:  Studies  in  the  Legend  of  the  Holy  Grail; 
O'Hagan:  Translation  of  Song  of  Roland;  Baton:  Studies  in  the 
Fairy  Mythology  of  the  Arthurian  Legend;  Pattee:  Foundations 
of  English  Literature;  Percy:  Reliques;  Potvin:  High  History 
of  the  Holy  Grail;  Pyle:  Story  of  King  Arthur;  Radcliffe  College 
Monographs;  Rhys:  Studies  in  the  Arthurian  Legend;  Kitson: 
Metrical  Romances;  Saintsbury:  Flourishing  of  Romance; 
Sandys:  History  of  Classical  Scholarship;  Schofield:  English  Lit- 
erature from  the  Norman  Conquest  to  Chaucer;  Simonds:  Intro- 
duction to  English  Fiction;  Smith:  Troubadours  at  Home;  Snell: 
Fourteenth  Century;  Stephen:  Stories  from  Old  Chronicles; 
Taine:    English    Literature;    Ten    Brink:    English    Literature; 

416 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Thorns:  Early  Prose  Romances;  Traill:  Social  England;  Warner: 
Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature;  Warren:  History  of  the 
Novel  Previous  to  the  Seventeenth  Century;  Warton:  History  of 
English  Poetry;  Weber:  Early  Romances;  Weston:  Legend  of 
Sir  Gawaini  Legend  of  Sir  Lancelot,  Legend  of  Sir  Perceval,  King 
Arthur  and  His  Knights,  Translations  of  Marie  de  France,  Ro- 
mance Cycle  of  Charlemagne;  Wright:  Biographia  Britannica 
Literaria, 

II.    Fiction  of  the  Period 

Religious  Fiction:  Cleanness;  Debate  of  the  Body  and  the 
Soul  (c.  1150)  ;  Early  English  Legendary  (Horstmann),  E.  E. 
T.  S.;  Genesis  and  Exodus  (1250),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  History  of  the 
Holy  Rood,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Legends  of  the  Holy  Rood-Tree,  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Legends  of  St.  George  (Matzke),  M.  L.  A.,  XVII;  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Life  of  St.  Kath&rine  (Capgrave),  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Pearl  (Gollancz) ;  Robert  Manning  (1298);  Handlyng  Synne; 
St.  Juliana  (1230),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Yie  de  St.  Auban  (Atkinson). 

Breton  Lays  in  English:  Emare  (Ritson)  ;  Erie  of  Toulous 
(Ritson)  ;  History  of  Patient  Grissell  (Wheatley)  ;  La  Freine 
(Weber) ;  Robert  the  Devil  (Hazlitt's  Rem.)  ;  Sir  Launfal  (Rit- 
son, Kittredge  in  Amer.  Journ.  Phil.)  ;  Sir  Orfeo  (Ritson, 
Child) ;  Weston:   Three  Days*  Tournament. 

Welsh  Fiction:  Guest's  Mabinogion;  Hunt's  Popular  Ro- 
mances of  the  West  of  England;  Menzies'  Legendary  Tales  of 
Ancient  Britons;  Nash's  Taliesin;  Stephens'  Literature  of  Kymry. 

French  Fiction  in  England:  Works  of  Marie  de  France 
(Weston,  Rickett,  Schofield  in  Harvard  Studies,  V,  22,  and  M. 
L.  A.,  IV.,  121);  Chretien  de  Troyes  {Cligds,  Eric  and  Enide, 
Yvain,  Lancelot,  Guilliaume  d'Angleterre,  Perceval  le  Gallois, 
Roma/n  de  la  Charrette). 

Irish  Legends:  Hyde:  Literary  History  of  Ireland;  Croker: 
Fairy  Legends  of  the  South  of  Ireland;  Irish  Literature  (Morris 
Co.). 

Arthurian  Legend:     Arthur,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Fletcher:  Arthurian 

Material  in   the   Chronicles;   Harvard   Studies,  X;    Gawayne,  A 

Collection   (Bannatyne  Club)  ;  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth:   History  of 

British  Kings;  Gurteen:  Arthurian  Epic;  King  Arthur  and  King 

27  417 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Cornwall  (Madden)  ;  Layamon:  Brut;  Le  Morte  Arthur;  Mal- 
ory: Morte  Darthur;  Maynadier:  Arthur  of  the  English  Poets; 
Morris:  Historical  Tales;  Morte  Arthwre,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Newell: 
King  Arthur  and  the  Talkie  Round;  Nutt:  Celtic  and  Medieval 
Romance;  Pyle:  Story  of  King  Arthur;  Rhys:  Studies  in  the 
Arthuria/n  Legend;  Wace:  Brut  d'Angleterre;  Weston:  King 
Arthur  and  His  Knights, 

The  Holy  Grail  Legend:  Bulfinch:  Age  of  Chivalry;  History 
of  the  Holy  Grail,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Joseph  of  Arimathie,  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Legend  of  the  Holy  Grail,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Malory:  Morte  Darthur; 
Map:  Queste  de  St,  Graal;  Nutt:  Studies  in  the  Legend  of  the 
Holy  Grail;  Potvin:  High  History  ef  the  Holy  Grail;  Weston: 
Pa/rzival  and  Titurel. 

The  Gawain  Legend:  Avowinge  of  King  Arthur  (Robson)  ; 
Madden:  Sir  Gawayne  (Bannatyne  Club);  Sir  Gawayn  (1360), 
Heath;  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Grene  Knight  (Weston,  Madden, 
E.  E.  T.  S.);  Sir  Perceval  of  Galles  (Thornton);  Wedding  of 
Sir  Gawen  (Ritson) ;  Ywain  (Brown  in  Harvard  Studies,  VIII) ; 
Twain  and  GaAX)ain  (Ritson). 

The  Lancelot  Legend:  Furnivall:  Lancelot;  Fumivall:  Early 
English  Poems;  Lancelot  (Bruce),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Lancelot  of  the 
Laik  (Skeat,  E.  E.  T.  S.,  Stevenson,  Maitland  Club),  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Le  Morte  Arthur  (Roxborough)  ;  Map:  Lancelot  de  Loc. 

The  Merlin  Legend:  Abbot:  Arthour  and  Merlin;  Merlin 
(Mead,  Kock),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Percy:  Folio  MS,;  Wace's  Roman 
de  Brut,  Fletcher  in  Harvard  Studies. 

The  King  Horn  Legend:  Hind  Horn  (Child)  King  Horn  (Mc- 
Knight),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Horn  and  Rimenhild  (M.  L.  A.,  XVIII)  ; 
Horn  Childe  (Ritson)  ;  King  Horn  (Hall)  King  Horn  and 
Floriz  and  Blauncheflur,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  King  Pontus  (Mathes 
M.  L.  A.). 

The  Guy  of  Warwick  Legend:  Guy  of  Warwick  (Turnbull), 
E.  E.  T.  S.;  Guy  and  Phyllis,  Guy  and  Colehrande,  Guye  and 
AmaroMt  (Percy  Folio  MS.). 

Bevis  of  Hampton  (Kolbing),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  (Turnbull),  Mait- 
land. 

The  Robin  Hood  Legend :     Child :  English  and  Scottish  Ballads; 

418 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Percy:    Reliques;  Sargent   and  Kittredge:    Ballads,  English  and 
Scotch. 

The  Havelok  Legend:  Havelok  (D.  C.  Heath);  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Skeat  (Oxford)  ;  Lai  de  Havelok  (Madden),  Roxburgh  Club  Pub- 
lications. 

Adam  Bell  (Child). 

Miller  of  Mansfield  (Child). 

Richard  Coer  de  Lion  (Weber). 

The  Troy  Legend:  See  the  works  of  Geoffrey,  Wace,  Layamon, 
Map,  and  Malory;  Caxton:  Recuyell  of  the  History es  of  Troye 
(Sommer)  ;  Caxton:  Eneydos,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Destruction  of  Troy 
(Panton  and  Donaldson),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Fletcher  on  Wace's  Brut, 
Harvard  Studies,  X;  Laud  Troy  Booh  (Wulfing),  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Lydgate:  Romance  of  Thehes;  Sege  of  Troy  (Wager) ;  Taylor: 
Classical  Heritage  of  Middle  Ages, 

The  Alexander  Legend:  Alexander  (Weber);  Budge:  His- 
tory of  Alexa/nder  the  Great;  Budge:  Life  and  Exploits  of  Alex- 
ander; Laing:  Alexander  Book;  Wars  of  Alexander  (Skeat), 
E.  E.  T.  S. 

The  Charlemagne  Legend:  Charles  the  Crete,  E.  E.  T.  S.; 
Duke  Rowlande  (Herrtage),  E.  E.  T.  S. ;  Rouland  and  Yernagu, 
E.  E.  T.  S.;  Song  of  Roland  (Macmillan  Co.,  Butler,  O'Hagan, 
Way  and  Spencer)  ;  W^eston:  Romance  Cycle  of  Charlemagne, 

The  Blancheflour  Legend:  Flores  and  Blancheflour  (Laing), 
(McKnight),  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Ellis'  Specimens;  Neilson:  Origins  and 
Sources  of  the  Court  of  Love,  Harvard  Studies,  VI. 

Other  Classical  Legends:  Campbell:  Seven  Sages;  Wright: 
Seven  Sages  (Percy  Society)  ;  for  the  same  themes  see  Weber's 
and  Ellis'  Collections;  Greek  Romances  (Bohn)  ;  Ipomedon 
(Weber) ;  Melusine,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Squire  of  Low  Degree  (Ritson, 
Mead)  ;  William  of  Palerne   (Skeat),  E.  E.  T.  S. 

Fabliaux:  Dan  Hugh  Monk  (Hazlitt's  Rem.)  ;  Fabliaux  (D. 
C.  Heath)  ;  Frere  and  the  Boye  (Hazlitt's  Rem.)  ;  Hazlitt:  One 
Hundred  Merry  Tales;  How  a  Merchant  Dyd  His  Wyfe  Betray 
(Hazlitt's  Rem.,  Ritson's  Ancient  Popular  Poetry)  ;  Husband's 
Merry  Tale  (Hazlitt's  Rem.)  ;  Huntyng  of  the  Hare  (Weber)  ; 
Laing:  Penniworth  of  Witte;  Merry  Jest  of  the  Mylner  of  Abing- 

419 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

ton   (Hazlitt's  Rem.)  ;  Plowman^ s  Paternoster   (Halliwell's  Early 
English  Miscellanies,  Hazlitt's  Rem.), 

Beastiaries,  Animal  Fables^  etc. :  Caxton :  JEsop  ( Jacobs ) ; 
Caxton:  Reynard  the  Fox  (Arber)  ;  Holland:  Buke  of  Howlate 
(Laing)  ;  Henryson:  Moral  Fables  of  Msop  (Laing) ;  Old  Eng- 
lish Miscellany,  E.  E.  T.  S.;  Tales  from  Pali  (Morris)  j  The  Fox 
and  the  Wolf  (Percy  Society). 

III.    Fiction  about  the  Period 

Ainsworth:  Merrie  England;  Aquilar:  Days  of  Bruce;  Berke- 
ley: Berkeley  Castle;  Brady:  Eohen<sollern ;  Charles:  Joan  the 
Maid;  Chetwoode:  Knight  of  the  Golden  Chain;  Converse:  Long 
Will;  Coosland:  Stories  of  London;  Crawford:  Via  Crucis; 
Davis:  Falaise  of  the  Blessed  Voice;  Davis:  Qod  Wills  It;  Davis: 
Saint  of  the  Dragon's  Dale;  Edgar:  Cr4cy  and  Poitier;  Edgar: 
Runnymede  and  Lincoln  Fair;  Egan:  Robin  Hood;  French:  Sir 
Ma/rrok;  Gilliat:  First  Outlaws,  John  Standish,  King's  Leave; 
Gomme:  King's  Story  Book;  Hale:  In  His  Name;  Henty:  In 
Freedom's  Cause,  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  March  on  London,  St. 
George  for  England;  Hewlett:  Fond  Adventures;  New  Canter- 
bury Tales;  Richard  Yea-and-Nay;  Ingemann:  King  Eric  and 
the  Outlaws;  James:  Forest  Days,  Agincourt;  Larned:  Arnaud's 
Masterpiece;  Lytton:  Harold,  Last  of  the  Barons,  Rienzi; 
Mackay:  Camp  of  Refuge;  Meakin:  The  Assassins;  Meville: 
Sarchedon;  Miller:  Raoul  and  Iron  Band,  Under  the  Eagle's 
Wing;  Napier:  William  the  Conqueror;  Porter:  Scottish  Chiefs; 
Potter:  TJncanonized ;  Pyle:  Man  of  Iron;  Otto  of  the  Silver 
Land;  Kydeberg;  Singvalla;  Scott:  Betrothed,  Castle  Dangerous, 
Count  Robert,  Fair  Maid  of  Perth,  Ivanhoe,  Talisman;  Sienkie- 
wicz:  Knights  of  the  Cross;  Stanhope:  Sign  of  Kenilworth; 
Stevens:  I  Am  The  King;  Stoddard:  With  the  Black  Prince; 
Tappan:  In  the  Days  of  William  the  Conqueror;  Twain:  Joan 
of  Arc;  White:  John  of  Gaunt,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion;  Yonge: 
Dove  in  the  Eagle's  Nest,  Lances  of  Lynwood,  Little  Prince, 
Prince  and  the  Page,  Wardship  of  Steepcoombe. 


.420 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  Foubteenth  and  Fifteenth  Centubies 

7.     General  WorkSy  and  Fiction  of  the  Period 

Ancient  Songs  and  Ballads  (Ed.  Ritson)  ;  Baldwin:  Famous 
Allegories;  Barbour:  The  Bruce  (Ed.  Skeat,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Bates: 
English  Religious  Dramas;  Bishop  Percy's  Folio  M8.  (Ed.  Hales 
and  Furnivall,  Ballad  Society);  Blades:  Life  of  Caxton;  Boc- 
caccio: Decameron  (Ed.  Payne,  Wright);  Browne:  Chaucer's 
England;  Buckle:  History  of  Civilization;  Century  Readings  in 
English  Literature  (Ed.  Cunliffe,  Pyre,  and  Young)  ;  Chaucer: 
Works  (Ed.  Morris,  Nicholas,  Saunders,  Skeat,  etc.)  ;  Chronicon 
Angliae  (Ed.  Thompson)  ;  Courthope:  History  of  English  Poetry; 
Craik:  English  Literature  and  Language;  Craik:  English  Prose; 
Cross:  Development  of  English  Novel;  Cursor  Mundi  (Ed.  Mor- 
ris, E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Davy's  Five  Dreams  (Ed.  Furnivall,  E.  E.  T. 
S.);  Douglas:  Works  (Ed.  Small);  Dunbar:  Works  (Ed.  Small 
and  Mackay)  ;  Dunlop:  History  of  Fiction;  English  and  Scottish 
Ballads  (Child,  Gummere,  Bates)  ;  English  Gilds  (Ed.  Smith, 
E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  English  Prose  Treatises  of  Richard  Rolle  (Ed. 
Perry,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Froissart:  Chronicles  (Ed.  Lace,  Johnes)  ; 
Froude:  History  of  England;  Gairdner:  Houses  of  Lancaster  and 
York;  Gesta  Romanorum  (Ed.  Herrtage)  ;  Godwin:  Life  of 
Chaucer;  Gower:  Confessio  Amantis  (Morley,  Pauli),  Vox 
Clamantis  (Roxburgh  Club);  Green:  Shorter  History  of  the 
English  People;  Harrison:  Description  of  England  (Ed.  Furni- 
vall, New  Shakespeare  Society)  ;  Hawes:  Pastime  of  Pleasure 
(Percy  Society);  Henryson:  Works  (Ed.  Laing)  ;  Hoccleve:  De 
Regimine  Principum  (Ed.  Wright,  Roxburgh  Club),  Works  (Ed. 
Furnivall,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  James  I:  King's  Quhair  (Ed.  Todd); 
Jessopp:  Coming  of  the  Friars;  Jusserand:  Literary  History  of 
English  People,  Piers  Ploicman,  Wayfaring  Life  in  the  Four- 
teenth Century;  King  Edward  IPs  Household  and  Wardrobe 
Ordina/nces  (Ed.  Furnivall,  Chaucer  Society)  ;  King  Horn  (Ed. 
Lumby,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  :  Knights  Hospitallers  in  England  (Ed. 
Larking  and  Kimble,  Camden  Society)  ;  Langland:  Piers  Plow- 
man (Ed.  J.  Morris,  Skeat,  etc.)  ;  Lanier:  Boy's  Froissart,  Boy's 
King  Arthur;  Lecky:  History  of  Morals;  Life  Records  of  Chaucer 

421 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

(Chaucer  Society);  Lounsbury:  Studies  in  Chaucer;  Lowell: 
Essay  on  Chaucer;  Lydgate:  Minor  Poems  (Ed.  Halliwell,  Percy 
Society),  Temple  of  Glas  (Ed.  Schick,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Malory: 
Morte  Darthur  (Ed.  Mead,  Sommer,  Southey)  ;  Mandeville: 
Travels  (Bohn,  Ed.  Halliwell)  ;  Manly:  English  Poets,  Specimens 
of  Pre- Shakespearian  Drama;  Marsh:  English  Language;  Mill: 
Chivalry;  Minto:  Characteristics  of  English  Poets;  Morley:  Eng- 
lish Writers,  Memoirs  of  Bartholomeiv  Fair;  Morris  and  Skeat: 
Specimens  of  Middle  English;  Morte  Arthure  (Ed.  Brock,  E.  E. 
T.  S.)  ;  Newcomer:  Twelve  Centuries  of  English  Prose  and 
Poetry;  Nicholas:  Life  of  Chaucer;  Owl  and  Nightingale  (Ed. 
Stevenson,  Roxburghe)  ;  Paston  Letters  (Bohn,  Ed.  Gairdner)  ; 
Pierce  the  Ploughman's  Crede  (Ed.  Skeat,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Political, 
Religious,  and  Love  Poems  (Ed.  Furnivall,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Pollard: 
Chaucer,  English  Miracle  Plays;  Poole:  Wy cliff e  and  Movements 
for  Reform;  Reliquae  Antiquae  (Ed.  Wright  and  Halliwell)  ; 
Riley:  Memorials  of  London;  Robert  of  Brunne:  Eandlyng  Sinne 
(Ed.  Furnivall,  Roxburghe  Club)  ;  Rogers:  History  of  Agricul- 
ture and  Prices  in  England;  Romances  of  Chivalry  (Ed.  Ash- 
ton)  ;  Schofield:  English  Literature  from  the  Norman  Conquest 
to  Chaucer;  Scott:  Essay  on  Chivalry;  Scudder:  Social  Ideals  in 
English  Letters;  Select  Charters  (Ed.  Stubbs)  ;  Sargeant:  Life 
of  Wickliffe;  Simpson:  St,  Paul's  Cathedral  and  Old  City  Life; 
Sir  Qawain  and  the  Green  Knight  (Ed.  Morris,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ; 
Skelton:  Poems  (Ed.  Dyce)  ;  Songs  and  Carols  (Ed.  Wright, 
Percy  Society);  Stubbes:  Anatomy  of  Abuses  (Ed.  Furnivall, 
New  Shakespeare  Society);  Symonds:  Shakespeare's  Predeces- 
sors; Taine:  English  Literature;  Ten  Brink:  Chaucer  Studies; 
Thorns:  Early  English  Prose  Romances;  Thornton  Romances 
(Ed.  Halliwell,  Camden  Society)  ;  Tolman:  Bibliography  of  Eng- 
lish Drama  before  Elizabeth;  Travels  of  Nicander  Nucius  (Cam- 
den Society);  Trevelyan:  England  in  the  Age  of  Wycliffe; 
Tuckerman:  History  of  English  Prose-Fiction;  Warburton:  Ed- 
wurd  III;  Ward:  Catalogue  of  Romances  in  the  Department  of 
MSS.  in  the  British  Museum,  English  Poets,  Life  of  Chaucer; 
Warner:  Buke  of  John  Maundevill  (Roxburghe  Club);  English 
History  in  Shakespeare's  Plays;  Warton:  History  of  English 
Poetry;  Way:    Fabliaux  or  Tales;  Welch:    English  Masterpiece 

422 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Course;  Wickliffe:  Bible  (Ed.  Forshall  and  Madden)  ;  Selected 
English  Works  (Ed.  Arnold)  ;  William  of  Palerne  (Ed.  Skeat)  ; 
Wright's  Chaste  Wife  (Ed.  Furnivall,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Wright: 
Domestic  Manners  and  Sentiments ;  Manners  and  Sentiments  in 
the  Middle  Ages;  Political  Poems  and  Songs, 

II.     Fiction  about  the  Period 

Barr:  Prince  of  Good  Fellows;  Charles:  Chronicles  of  the 
Schonherg-Cotta  Family,  Joan  the  Maid;  Church:  Priest  of  Bar- 
net;  Coryell:  Diccon  the  Bold,  Diego  Pinzon;  Crawford:  Marietta; 
Crockett:  Black  Douglas;  Doyle:  White  Company;  Ebers:  A 
Word,  Only  a  Word,  Barbara  Blomberg;  Eliot:  Romola;  Far- 
rington:  Fra  Lippo  Lippi;  Fenn:  Frank  and  Saxon;  Gomme: 
Princess  Story  Book;  Gunsaulus:  Monk  and  Knight;  Henty:  At 
Agincourt,  Both  Sides  the  Border,  Knight  of  the  White  Cross; 
Hugo:  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame;  Isham:  Under  the  Rose; 
Kingsley:  Westward  Ho;  Lang:  Monk  of  Fife;  Ludlow:  Cap- 
tain of  the  Janizaries;  Major:  When  Knighthood  was  in  Flower; 
Reade:  Cloister  and  Hearth;  Rosegger:  The  God  Seeker;  San- 
ders: For  Prince  and  People;  Sawyer:  All's  Fair  in  Love,  Every 
Inch  a  King;  Scott:  Abbot,  Anne  of  Gierstein,  Monastery,  Quen- 
tin  Durward;  Stevenson:  The  Black  Arrow;  Taylor:  House  of 
the  Wizard;  Turnbull:  Golden  Book  of  Venice;  Twain:  Joan  of 
Arc;  Whiteley:  Fulcon  of  Langiac;  Wolflf:  Salt  Master  of  Lunl- 
burg. 

The  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries 

/.     General  Works,  and  Fiction  of  the  Period 

Amadis  de  Gaula  (Tr.  Munday,  Ed.  Southey)  ;  Arber:  Eng- 
lish Garner;  Ascham:  The  Scholemaster  (Arber);  Ascham: 
Works  (Library  of  Old  Authors,  and  Giles)  ;  Ballads  and  Ro- 
mances (Ed.  Hales  and  Furnivall,  Ballad  Society)  ;  Barbauld: 
Correspondence  of  Samuel  Richardson;  Barclay:  Argenis  (Eng- 
lish tr.  Le  Grys)  ;  Behn:  Complete  Works  (Ed.  Pearson)  ; 
Bemer:  Froissart's  Chronicles;  Biesly:  Queen  Elizabeth;  Blades: 
Life  and  Typography  of  William  Caxton;  Bourne:  Memoir  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney;  Bourne:  Sir  Philip  Sidney;  Breton:  Works 
(Ed.  Grosart) ;    Bridgett:    Life  of  More;   Bunyan:    Holy   War, 

423 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Life  and  Death  of  Mr,  B adman.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress;  Captain 
Cox  (Ed.  Furnivall,  Ballad  Society)  ;  Caveat  .  .  .  for  .  .  . 
Vagabonds  (Ed.  Harman,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Clark:  English  Prose 
Writers;  Cook:  The  Bible  and  English  Prose  Style;  Craik: 
English  Prose;  Creighton:  Age  of  Elizabeth;  Cross:  Development 
of  the  English  Novel;  Davis:  Life  and  Tames  of  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney; Dekker:  Works  (Ed.  Grosart) ;  Dickenson's  Prose  and 
Verse  (Ed.  Grosart)  ;  Douce:  Illustrations  of  Shakespeare;  Dow- 
den:  Transcripts  and  Studies;  Drake:  Shakespeare  and  His 
Times;  Dunlop:  History  of  Fiction;  Early  Prose  Romances  (Ed. 
Morley)  ;  Fraternity  of  Vagabonds  (Audeley,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ; 
Froude:  History  of  England;  Furnivall:  Leopold  Shakespere; 
Furnivall:  Story  of  England;  Gosse:  Jacobean  Poets;  Gosse: 
Seventeenth  Century  Studies;  Gray:  Life  of  Sidney;  Green: 
Short  History  of  the  English  People;  Greene:  History  of  Friar 
Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay  (Ed.  Ward),  Menaphon  (Arber),  Poems 
(Ed.  Bell),  Works  (Ed.  Grosart);  Gummere;  Old  English  Bal- 
lads; Hallam:  Literature  of  Europe;  Hannay:  The  Latin 
Renaissance;  Harrington:  Oceana;  Harrison:  Elizabethan  Eng- 
land; Hart:  Euphuism;  Hazlitt:  Elizabethan  Literature;  Her- 
ford:  Literary  Relatione  of  England  and  Germany  in  the  Six- 
teenth Century;  Holliday:  Cavalier  Poets;  Jusserand:  English 
"Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakespeare;  Jusserand:  Literary  History 
of  the  English  People;  Kent:  Designs  of  Inigo  Jones;  Lamb: 
Notes  on  Elizabethan  Dramatists;  Landmann:  Shakespeare  and 
Euphuism  (New  Shakespeare  Society,  1884)  ;  Lanier:  English 
Novel;  Lee:  Life  of  Shakespeare,  Literature  of  all  Nations  (Ed. 
Hawthorne)  ;  Lodge:  Complete  Works  (Ed.  Gosse,  Hunterian 
Club),  Forbonius  and  Presceria  (Shakespeare  Society),  Rosa- 
lynde  (Ed.  Baldwin,  Hazlitt,  Morley),  The  Margarite  of  America 
(Ed.  Halliwell)  ;  Lowell:  Old  British  Dramatists;  Lyly:  Dra- 
matic Works  (Ed.  Fairholt),  Endymion  (Ed.  Baker),  Euphues 
(Arber),  Euphues  and  His  England  (Arber),  Euphues  (Ed. 
Landmann)  ,*  Malory:  Morte  Darthur  (Ed.  Summer  and  Long)  ; 
Masson:  British  Novelists;  Masson:  Life  and  Times  of  John 
Milton;  Melville:  Travels  (Ed.  Morley)  ;  Moberly:  Early  Tudors; 
Monson:  Life  of  More;  More:  Utopia  (Arber,  Pitt  Press)  ;  Mor- 
ley: English  Writers;  Morley:  ''Euphues"  London  Quarterly  Re- 

424 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

view,  April,  1861;  Moulton:  History  of  the  English  Bible;  Muse's 
Library  (Ed.  Chambers  and  Saintsbury)  ;  Nash:  Works  (Ed. 
Grosart) ;  North:  Plutarch's  Lives;  Old  English  Miscellany  (Ed. 
Morris,  E.  E.  T.  S.)  ;  Painter:  Palace  of  Pleasure  (Ed.  Jacobs)  ; 
Palgrave;  Golden  Treasury;  Pattee:  Foundations  of  English  Liter- 
ature; Pears :  Correspondence  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  E.  Languet; 
Perry:  Reformation  in  England;  Plasidas  and  Other  Rare  Pieces 
(Ed.  Gibbs,  Roxburghe  Club)  ;  Quick:  Educational  Reformers; 
Raleigh:  The  English  'Novel;  Saintsbury:  Elizabethan  Literature; 
Schaff:  The  Renaissance;  Shakespeare's  Library  (Ed.  Collier  and 
Hazlitt) ;  Schelling:  Elizabethan  Lyrics;  Schelling:  Life  and 
Writings  of  George  Gascoigne;  Seebohm:  Era  of  the  Protestant 
Revolution;  Seebohm:  Oxford  Reformers;  Shakespeare  Jest-books 
(Ed.  Hazlitt)  ;  Sidney:  Arcadia  (Ed.  Friswell,  Sampson,  Low, 
and  Marston),  Astrophel  and  Stella  (Ed.  Pollard),  Defense  of 
Poesie  (Arber),  Works  (Ed.  Grosart);  Simonds:  Introduction 
to  English  Prose  Fiction;  Stoddard:  English  Novel;  Stone: 
Chronicles  of  Fashion;  Symonds:  Life  of  Jonson,  Life  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  Renaissance  in  Italy;  Taine:  History  of  English 
Literature;  Tale  of  Gamelyn  (Ed.  Skeat)  ;  Temple:  Miscellanea; 
Thoms:  Early  English  Prose  Romances;  Thornbury:  Shake- 
speare's England;  Thorpe:  Codex  Exoniensis;  Ticknor:  History 
of  Spanish  Literature;  Tottel's  Miscellany  (Arber)  ;  Traill:  So- 
cial England;  Travels  of  Nicander  Nucius  (Ed.  Cramer,  Camden 
Society)  ;  Tuckerman:  History  of  English  Prose  Fiction;  Upham: 
French  Influence  in  Eng.  Lit.;  Walton:  Complete  Works  (Ed. 
Church)  ;  Ward:  English  Poets;  Ward:  History  of  English  Dra- 
matic Literature;  Warner:  The  People  for  Whom  Shakespeare 
Wrote;  Warren:  The  Novel  Previous  to  the  Seventeenth  Century; 
Watson:  Poems  (Arber);  Welch:  English  Masterpiece  Course; 
Whipple:  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth;  Wolflf,  S.  L.,  Greek 
Roma/nces  in  Eliz.  Prose  Fiction;  Wright:  Essays  on  the  Middle 
Ages, 

II,    Fiction  about  the  Period 

Abcock:    Under  Calvin's  Spell;  Ainsworth:   Guy  Fawkes,  Old 
Saint  Paul's,   Tower  Hill,   Tower  of  London,   Windsor   Castle; 

425 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

Bailey:  My  Lady  of  Orange;  Barr:  Friend  Olivia,  Lion's  Whelp, 
Over  the  Border;  Barry:  The  Day  spring;  Bennett:  Master  Sky- 
lark; Benson:  By  What  Authority;  Besant:  For  Faith  and  Free- 
dom; Black:  Judith  Bhakespeojre ;  Burton:  Scourge  of  God;  Chet- 
woode:  John  of  Strathhourne;  Church:  John  Marmaduke,  Pen- 
ruddock  of  the  White  Lambs,  With  the  King  at  Oxford;  Clark: 
Will  Shakespeare's  Little  Lad;  Cooke:  My  Lady  Tokahontas; 
Couch:  Splendid  Spur,  Lockinvar,  Red  Axe,  Standard  Bearer; 
Dearborn:  Lionel  Arden;  Dickson:  Black  Wolfs  Breed;  Dix: 
Hugh  Gwyeth,  Life,  Treason,  and  Death  of  James  Blount;  Doyle: 
Micah  Clarke;  Drummond :  Man  of  His  Age;  Dumas :  Man  in  the 
Iron  Mask,  Page  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  Two  Dianas;  Farmer: 
Grand  Mademoiselle;  Fenn:  Black  Tor;  Fletcher:  In  the  Days 
of  Drake;  Mistress  Spitfire,  When  Charles  the  First  was  King; 
Gautier:  Captain  Fracasse;  Gomme:  Princess  Story  Book; 
Grould:  Gi^ava^  the  Tinner;  Haggard:  Lysheth;  Hall:  Brave 
Days  of  Old;  Henty:  St.  Bartholomew's  Eve,  Under  Drake's 
Flag,  When  London  Burned,  Won  hy  the  Sword;  Hewlett:  Queen's 
Quair;  Hinkson:  Golden  Lily,  Silk  and  Steel;  Hope:  Simon  Dale; 
James:  Arabella,  Stuart,  Heidelburg,  Henry  Masterton,  Richelieu, 
Russell,  The  Cavalier;  Johnson:  The  King's  Benchman;  John- 
ston: To  Have  and  to  Hold;  Keightday:  Silver  Cross,  The  Cavor 
Hers,  The  Crimson  Sign;  Lee :  Key  of  the  Holy  House,  King  Stork 
of  Netherlands;  Leighton:  Golden  Galleon;  Lyall:  In  Spite  of  All, 
In  the  Golden  Days;  McChesney:  Miriam  Cromwell;  MacDonald: 
God  Save  the  King;  MacGrath :  Grey  Cloak ;  McManus :  The  Silk 
of  the  Mine;  Major:  Dorothy  Vernon;  Manning:  Cherry  and  Vio- 
let, Diary  of  Mary  Powell,  Household  of  Sir  Thomas  More; 
Marryatt:  Children  of  the  New  Forest;  Marshall:  In  the  Choir 
of  Westminster  Abbey,  Kensington  Palace,  Under  the  Dome  of 
St.  Paul's;  Mason:  Courtship  of  Morrice  Buckler;  Melville: 
Holmby  House;  Moore:  Castle  Omeragh;  Muhlbach:  Henry  VIII; 
Munro:  John  Splendid;  Noble:  Ryhoves  of  Antwerp;  O'Grady: 
In  the  Wake  of  King  James,  Ulrick  the  Ready;  Oliphant:  Mag- 
dalen Hepburn;  Paterson:  Cromwell's  Own;  Ran:  Mozart;  Heed: 
No  Quarter,  The  White  Gauntlet;  Robert:  In  the  Olden  Time; 
Sheard:  By  the  Queen's  Grace;  Scott:  Bride  of  Lammermoor, 
Feveril  of  the  Peak,  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  Kenilworth,  Lady  of  the 

426 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Lake,  Legend  of  Montrose,  Marmion,  Old  Mortality y  The  Pirate, 
Woodstock;  Seawell:  House  of  Egremont;  Shorthouse:  John 
Inglesant;  Sienkiewicz:  Deluge,  Pan  Michael;  Smith:  Bramble- 
tye  House;  Stephens:  A  Gentleman  Player;  Taylor:  My  Lady 
Clancarty,  The  Cardinal's  Musketeer;  Twain:  Prince  and  Pauper; 
Vallings:  By  Dulvercomhe  Water;  Vigny:  Cinq-Mars;  Weyman: 
Count  Hannibal,  Gentleman  of  France,  House  of  the  Wolf,  My 
Lady  Rotha,  Shrewsbury,  Story  of  Francis  Cludde,  Under  the 
Red  Robe;  Wilson :  Rose  of  Normandy;  Yeats :  Chevalier  d'Auriac, 
Orrain;  Yonge:  Last  of  the  Ca/valiers,  Unknown  to  History, 

The  Eighteenth  Century 
7.     General  Works,  and  Fiction  of  the  Period 

Addison:  Spectator,  ed.  Morley;  Ashton:  Social  Life  in  the 
Reign  of  Queene  Anne;  Bage:  Works  ( Ballentyne's  Novelist's 
Library)  ;  Barbauld:  Correspondence  of  Richardson;  Beckford: 
Vathek,  ed.  Garnett;  Beers:  English  Romanticism,  Eighteenth 
Century;  Black:  Life  of  Goldsmith;  Boswell:  Life  of  Johnson; 
Brooke:  Fool  of  Quality,  ed.  Kingsley;  Browne:  Estimate  of 
the  Times;  Bunyan:  Works,  ed.  Offer;  Burn:  History  of  Fleet 
Marriages;  Burney:  Evelina  and  Cecilia,  ed.  R.  B.  Johnson; 
Carlyle:  BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson;  Carter  and  Talbot  Corre- 
spondence, ed.  Pennington;  Chesterfield:  Correspondence;  Cole- 
ridge: Table  Talk;  Collins:  Life  of  Swift;  Conant,  M.  P.:  Ori- 
ental Tales;  Courthope:  Life  of  Addison;  Craik:  English 
Prose;  Craik:  Life  of  Swift;  Cross:  Development  of  the 
English  Novel;  Cross:  Life  and  Times  of  Sterne;  D'Arblay: 
Diary  and  Letters,  ed.  Barrett;  Day:  Sanford  and  Merton  (St. 
Nicholas  Series)  ;  Defoe:  Romances  and  Narratives,  ed.  Aitkin, 
Robinson  Crusoe  (with  bibliography),^  ed.  Dobson;  Delany 
(Mrs.)  :  Autobiography;  De  Quincey:  lAterary  Reminiscences; 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography;  Disraeli:  Curiosities  of  Lit- 
erature; Dobson:  Eighteenth  Century  Vignettes;  Dobson:  Life  of 
Fielding,  Life  of  Goldsmith,  Life  of  Steele;  Earle:  Microcosmog- 
raphy,  ed.  Bliss  (see  Appendix  for  "character"  books)  ;  Edge- 
worth:  Works  (New  Longford  Ed.);  Evelyn:  Diary  (Cassell)  ; 
Ferriar:    Illustrations  of  Sterne;  Fielding:    Works,   ed.   Saints- 

427 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

bury;  Fitzgerald:  Life  of  Sterne;  Fleet:  Glimpses  of  Our  Ances- 
tors; Forster:  Life  and  Times  of  Goldsmith,  Life  of  Swift; 
Forsyth:  'Novels  and  Novelists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century;  God- 
win (Mary)  :  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Woman;  Godwin 
(Wm.)  :  Caleb  Williams,  Political  Justice;  Goethe:  Dichtung  und 
Wahrheit;  Goldsmith:  Life  of  Beau  Nash,  Vicar  of  Wakefield; 
Gosse:  Eighteenth  Century  Literature;  Green:  Short  History  of 
English  People;  Grant:  Samuel  Johnson;  Hazlitt:  English  Nov- 
elists, Memoirs  of  Defoe,  Spirit  of  the  Age;  Hervey:  Memoirs  of 
George  II;  Hill:  Writers  and  Readers;  Inchbald:  Nature  and 
Art  (Cassell)  ;  Irving:  Life  of  Goldsmith;  Jeaffreson:  Book  of 
the  Clergy;  Johnson:  Rasselas;  Lecky:  History  of  England  in 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  History  of  European  Morals,  Rise  and 
Influence  of  Rationalism  in  Europe;  Lee:  Life  of  Defoe;  Lowell: 
My  Study  Windows;  Macaulay:  Essay  on  Johnson;  Mackenzie: 
Man  of  Feeling  (Cassell)  ;  Minto:  Daniel  Defoe;  Morgan,  C.  E.: 
The  Novel  of  Manners;  Opie:  Works  (Boston,  1827)  ;  Orrery:  Life 
and  Writings  of  Swift;  Pashley:  Pauperism  and  the  Poor  Laws; 
Phelps:  Beginnings  of  the  English  Romantic  Movement;  Pike:  His- 
tory of  Crime;  Porter:  Progress  of  the  Nation;  Porter  (Jane)  : 
Works  (Oxford  Series)  ;  Ramsay:  Reminiscences  of  Scottish  Life 
and  Character;  Reeve:  Old  English  Baron  (Cassell)  ;  Richard- 
son: Correspondence,  ed.  Barbauld,  Works,  ed.  Leslie  Stephen; 
Roscoe:  Life  of  Swift;  Schmidt:  Richardson,  Rousseau  and 
Goethe;  Scott:  Life  of  Richardson,  Memoirs  of  Johnson;  Shelley: 
Frankenstein  (Routledge)  ;  Simonds:  Introduction  to  English 
Fiction;  Smollett:  Works,  ed.  Henley,  ed.  Saintsbury;  Stephen: 
History  of  English  Thought,  Life  of  Johnson,  Life  of  Swift; 
Sterne:  Works,  ed.  Saintsbury;  Stoddard:  Evolution  of  the  Eng- 
lish Novel;  Strutt:  Sports  and  Pastimes;  Swift:  Works,  ed.  T. 
Scott;  Sydney:  England  and  the  English  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury; Taine:  English  Literature;  Thackeray:  English  Humorists; 
Trevelyan:  Early  History  of  Charles  James  Fox;  Tuckerman: 
History  of  Prose  Fiction;  Ullrich:  Robinson  and  Robins onaden ; 
Walpole:  Castle  of  Otranto  (Cassell),  Letters,  ed.  Cunningham; 
Wesley:  Journal;  Wilson:  Memoirs  of  Defoe;  Wright:  Carica- 
ture History  of  the  Georges, 

428 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


II,     Fiction  about  the  Period 

Allen:  Called  to  the  Front;  Balfour:  To  Arms;  Balzac:  The 
Chouans;  Barr:  Bernica;  Besant:  A  Fountain  Sealed,  Bernicia, 
Dorthy  Forster,  Lady  of  Lynn,  No  Other  Way,  8t.  Katherine's 
by  the  Tower;  Brady:  For  Love  of  Country;  Butterworth : 
Knight  of  Liberty;  Capes :  Adventures  of  the  Comte  de  la  Muette; 
Catherwood:  Lazarre ;  Charles:  Diary  of  Mrs,  Kitty  Trevylyan; 
Child:  Puritan  Wooing;  Churchill:  Richard  Carvel;  CoflBn: 
Daughters  of  the  Revolution;  Coleridge:  King  with  Two  Faces; 
Couch:  Betty  Wesley,  The  Westcotes;  Dickens:  Barnahy  Rudge, 
Tale  of  Two  Cities;  Dorr :  In  Kings'  Houses;  Dumas :  Ange  PitoUy 
Countess  de  Charney,  The  Conspirators;  Erckmann-Chatrian: 
Country  in  Danger,  Madame  Therese;  Ford:  Janice  Meredith; 
Goldemar:  Robespierre;  Godwin:  Caleb  Williams;  Goldsmith: 
Vicar  of  Wakefield;  Gomme:  Queen's  Story  Book;  Gras:  Ride  of 
the  Midi;  Hayes:  A  Kent  Squire;  Henty:  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie, 
Cornet  of  Horse,  Held  Fast  for  England,  With  Frederick  the 
Great;  Hough:  Mississippi  Bubble;  Hugo:  Ninety-Three;  King: 
Kitwyk  Stories;  Kingsley:  Mademoiselle  Mathilde;  Lane:  Nancy 
Stair;  Lever:  Oerald  Fitzgerald;  McAulay:  Poor  Sons  of  a  Day, 
The  Rhymer;  McLennan:  Spanish  John;  Marshall:  Master  of  the 
Musicians;  Martineau:  The  Peasant  and  the  Prince;  Mitchell: 
Adventures  of  Frangois;  Moore:  Impudent  Comedian,  Nest  of 
Linnets;  Muhlbach:  Berlin  and  Sans-Souci;  Parker:  Battle  of 
the  Strong;  Pemberton:  Love  the  Harvester;  Price:  In  the 
Lion's  Mouth;  Bau:  Beethoven;  Rhoscomyl:  For  the  White  Rose 
of  Arno;  Scott:  Antiquary,  Black  Dwarf,  Guy  Mannering,  Heart 
of  Midlothian,  Redgauntlet,  Waverley;  Seawell:  Loves  of  the 
Lady  Arabella,  The  Rock  of  the  Lion;  Sienkiewicz:  With  Fire 
and  Sword;  Simpson:  The  Sovereign  Power;  Stephens:  Con- 
tinental Dragoon;  Stevenson:  Kidnapped;  Sutcliffe:  Ricroft  of 
Withens;  Tarkington:  Monsieur  Beaucaire;  Thackeray:  Esmond; 
Weyman:  Red  Cockade;  Wharton:  Valley  of  Decision;  Xenos: 
Andronike. 


429 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

The  Nineteenth  Centuby 
/.     General  Works,  and  Fiction  of  the  Period 

Austen:  Works,  ed.  K.  B.  Johnson;  Austen-Leigh:  A  Memoir 
of  Jane  Austen;  Bagehot:  Literary  Studies;  Balfour:  Life  of 
Stevenson;  Bayne:  Essays  in  Biography  and  Criticism;  Birrell: 
Charlotte  Bronte;  Bronte  (C.  E.  and  A.)  :  Works,  ed.  Greig; 
Blind:  George  Eliot;  Browning  (Oscar)  ;  Life  of  'George  Eliot; 
Carleton:  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry,  ed.  O'Don- 
oghue;  Carlyle:  Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays,  Essay  on 
Scott,  Latter  Day  Pamphets;  Craik:  English  Prose;  Crawford: 
The  Novel:  What  It  Is;  Cross:  George  Eliot;  Davey:  Darwin, 
Carlyle,  and  Dickens;  Dickens:  Works,  ed.  Lang;  Dowden: 
Studies  in  Literature;  Terrier  (Susan)  :  Novels,  ed.  R.  B. 
Johnson;  Fields:  Yesterdays  with  Authors;  Forster:  Life  of 
Dickens;  Gait:  Novels,  ed.  Meldrum;  Gaskell:  Life  of  Charlotte 
Bronte;  Gates:  Three  Studies  in  Literature;  Gissing:  Charles 
Dickens;  Harrison:  Early  Victorian  Literature;  Herford:  Age 
of  Wordsworth;  Howard :  State  of  Prisons  in  England  and  Wales; 
Howells :  Criticism  and  Fiction;  Hunnewell :  Lands  of  Scott;  Hut- 
ton:  Essays  in  Litera/ry  Criticism,  Essays  on  Some  of  the  Mod- 
ern Guides  of  English  Thought  in  Matters  of  Faith,  Life  of  Scott; 
Irving:  Ahhotsford;  James  (G.  P.  R.)  :  Works  (Eoutledge  Lib.)  ; 
James  (H.)  :  Partial  Portraits;  Kaufmann:  Life  of  Kingsley ; 
Kingsley  (Mrs.)  :  Charles  Kingsley,  His  Letters  and  Memories 
of  His  Life;  Knight:  Popular  History  of  England;  Lang:  Let- 
ters to  Dead  Authors;  Lanier:  The  English  Novel;  Lockhart: 
Life  of  Scott,  Journal  of  Sir  Walter  Scott;  Lover:  Handy  Andy, 
ed.  Whibley;  Lowell:  Among  My  Books;  Lytton:  Life  of  Edward 
Bulwer;  Macaulay:  Essay  on  Mme.  d'Arhlay;  McCarthy:  His- 
tory of  Our  Own  Times;  Mackail:  Life  of  Morris;  Mackintosh: 
Miscellaneous  Works;  Marryat:  Novels,  ed.  R.  B.  Johnson; 
Marzial:  Life  of  Dickens;  Masson:  British  Novelists;  Matthews: 
The  Short  Story;  Maxwell:  Stories  of  Waterloo,  The  Bivouac 
(Notable  Novels  Series);  Melville:  Life  of  Thackeray;  Mitford: 
Out  Village,  ed.  Ritchie;  Morier:  Hajji  Baha,  ed.  Curzon;  Mor- 
ley:    English    Literature    in    the    Reign    of    Victoria;    Peacock: 

430 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

"Novels,  ed.  Saintsbury;  Saintsbury:  History  of  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury Literature;  Scott:  Works,  ed.  Farrar;  Shorter:  Charlotte 
Bronte  and  Her  Circle,  Victorian  Literature;  Smith:  Life  of 
Jane  Austen;  Stephen :  Hours  in  a  Library;  Stevenson :  Memories 
and  Portraits,  Works  (Thistle  Ed.)  ;  Thackeray:  Works,  ed. 
Kitchie;  Traill:  Social  England;  Trelawny:  Records  of  Shelley, 
Byron,  and  the  Author;  Trollope  (A.)  :  An  Autobiography,  Life 
of  Thackeray;  Walker:  Age  of  Tennyson;  Ward:  Life  of  Dickens; 
Whipple:  Essays  and  Reviews;  Woolson:  George  Eliot  and  Her 
Heroines;  Yonge:  Life  of  Scott;  Zola:  Le  Roman  Experimental, 
tr.  Sherman. 

Consult  Poole's  Index  for  innumerable  magazine  articles  on 
fiction  and  writers  of  the  century. 

//.    Fiction  about  the  Period 

Barr:  I,  Thou,  and  the  Other  One;  Benson:  The  Capsina,  The 
Vintage;  Berger:  Charles  Auchester;  Besant:  All  Sorts  and  Con- 
ditions of  Men;  Blackmore:  Alice  Lorraine,  Perly cross.  Spring- 
haven;  Blake:  Courtship  by  Command;  Buchanan:  Shadow  of 
the  Sword;  Burnett:  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy;  Caine:  Mamxman; 
Capes:  Love  Like  a  Gipsy;  Chambers:  Lorraine,  The  Red  Re- 
public; Claritie:  Vincomte  de  Puyjoli;  Crocker:  Beyond  the 
Pale;  Crockett:  Banner  of  Blue,  Lads*  Love;  Dickens:  Nicholas 
Nickleby;  Doyle:  A  Duet  with  an  Occasional  Chorus,  Rodney 
Stone;  Eliot:  Felix  Holt;  Garibaldi:  Rule  of  the  Monk;  Gaskell: 
Mary  Barton;  Gissing:  Demos,  New  Grub  St;  Henty:  At  Abou- 
kir  and  Acre,  Through  Russian  Snows,  Under  Wellington's  Com- 
mand, Young  Franc-Tireurs ;  Hughes:  Tom  Brown's  School  Days; 
James:  The  Awkward  Age,  Europeans;  Jokai:  The  Nameless 
Castle;  Lever:  Maurice  Tiernay;  Margueritte:  The  Disaster; 
Marshall:  In  Four  Reigns;  Mathews:  My  Lady  Peggy  Goes  to 
Town;  Meredith:  One  of  Our  Conquerors;  Sutcliffe:  Mistress 
Barbara;  Thackeray:  Newcomes,  Vanity  Fair;  Tolstoi:  The  Cos- 
sacks; Trollope:  Phineas  Finn;  Watson:  Beside  the  Bonnie  Briar 
Bush. 

The  Twentieth  Century 

For  trustworthy  information  about  the  novels  and  novelists  of 
the  present  century,  the  reader  is  compelled  to  reply  upon  maga- 

431 


ENGLISH  FICTION 

zines  dealing  with  contemporary  literature.  Among  the  best  of 
these  in  America  are  the  Bookman,  Current  Literature,  The  Dial, 
and  the  Book-News  Monthly,  Consult  Poole's  Index  of  Periodical 
Literature,  or  Reader's  Guide  to  Periodical  Literature, 


432 


INDEX 


'A 

Absentee,  282 

Adam  Bede,  350,  351,  352,  354, 
358 

Addison,  171,  192,  199,  200, 
203-4,  215,  278 

Admirable  and  Memorable  His- 
tories, 139 

Admiral's  Da/ughter,  375 

Adventures  of  a  Chuinea,  200, 
262 

Adventures  of  an  Atom,  241 

Adventures  of  Arthur,  97 

Adventures  of  Cherubina,  312 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes, 
389 

Agnes  Qrey,  374 

Ainsworth,  302,  375 

Alam,  Fitzosborne,  269 

Alexander  Legend,  64,  65,  66, 
71,  73,  77 

Alex  Forbes,  374 

Alfred,  King,  44 

Alice  for  Short,  397 

Alice  in  Wonderland,  308,  374 

All  Sorts  and  Conditions,  374 

A.  L.  O.  E.     (See  Tucker.) 

Alton  Locke,  342 

Alwyn,  274 

Amadis  of  Ckml,  181 

Amazi/ng  Marriage,  358 

Amelia,  200,  237 

American  Notes,  321 

Anastasius,  311 

Anatomy  of  Absurdity,  174 

Anatomy  of  Abuses,  109 

Anatomy  of  MeUmcholy,  251 

Andreas,  33 


Angel  of  Pain,  397 

Anglo-Saxon   Chronicle,   43,    55 

Anna  of  the  Five  Towns,  387 

Anna  St.  Ives,  274 

Annals  of  the  Parish,  301,  312 

Antiquarian  Romances,  269 

Antiquary,  300 

Apollonius  of  Tyre,  48,  50 

Arabian  Nights,  115 

Arbasto,  153,  155 

Arbisbas,  152 

Arbuthnot,  251 

Arcadia,   166,   167 

Argenis,  144 

Ariosto,  118 

Arthur,  103 

Arthur  and  Merlin,  99 

Arthur  Arundel,  302 

Arthurian  Legend,   62,   64,   65, 

73,  75,  77,  87,  122,  264 
Arthur  of  lAttle  Britain,   117, 

139 
Ascension,  30 
Ascham,  138,  140 
Assembly  of  the  Gods,  136 
Astrophel  and  Stella,   165,   166 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  71 
Auld  Licht  Idylls,  380,  381 
Austen,  217,  227,  282,  283,  286- 

292,  306,  311,  312,  319,  334, 

342,  345,  346,  347,  357,  376 
Austen's  Influence,  341-2 
A.  W.,  Mrs.,  172 
Ayrshire  Legatees,  311 

B 

Bage,  273,  275 
Bandello,  118,  139 


433 


INDEX 


Barbour,  118 

Ba/rchester  Towers,  356 

Barclay,  144 

Barham,  312 

Barham  Downs,  273,  274 

Barrett,  312 

Barrie,  370,  380,  381,  405 

Barry  Lyndon,  331,  336,  338 

Battle  of  Brunanburh,  44 

Battle  of  Finnshurg,  15,  18 

Battle  of  Maldon,  44 

Battle  of  the  Books,  210 

Baxter,  180 

Beauchamp's  Career,  358 

Beckford,  266,  316 

Bede,  25 

Behn,  182,  184,  216,  278 

Bek,  81,  84 

Belinda,  194,  282 

Bellamy,  145,  304 

Belman  of  London,  178 

Beloved   Vagabond,  400 

Benoit,  66,  67 

Bennett,   387,   388 

Benson,  A.  C,  380,  394,  395,  396 

Benson,  E.  F.,  394,  396,  397 

Beowulf,  8,  35,  37,  48 

Bergerae,  144 

Berington,  145 

Besant,  374 

Beside  Still  Waters,  380,  394 

Beside  the  Bonnie  Briar  Bush, 

380,  381 
Bestiaries,  63 
Betrothed,  302 
Beves  of  Hampton,  67,  59,  65 
Black,  355,  367 
Black  Bookes  Messenger,  159 
Black  but  Comely,  374 
Black  Douglas,  382 
Blackmore,  355,  367 
Black  Prophet,  375 
Blanchefleur  and  Floris,  71 
Blazing  World,  145 
Blue  Fairy  Book,  381 
Boccaccio,  118,  119 
Boiardo,  118 
Bondsman,  385 


Book  of  Duke  Euon,  77 

Book  of  Ma/rtyrs,  180,  189 

Book  of  Snobs,  331,  336 

Borrow,  344 

Boy  amd  the  Mantle,  91 

Boyle,   182-183 

Brambletye  House,  302 

Bray,  302 

Breton,  160-161 

British  Recluse,  216 

Broke  of  Covenden,  397 

Bronte,  A.,  374 

Bronte,  C,  345-8,  374 

Brooke,  269 

Brown,  301 

Browne,  180 

Brut,  66,  80 

Brut  d'Angleterre,  66,  80 

Bryan  Perdue,  274 

Bulwer-Lytton,  282,  303-7,  313, 

324,  330 
Bunyan,  177,  187-191 
Burney,  216,  280-2,  283 
Burton,  251 


Caedmon,  25,  41 

Caine,  303,  385 

Caleb  WilUams,  201,  273,  275- 

7 
Camilla,  281 
Canterbury  Tales,  57,  105,  108, 

111,  119,  135,  140 
Captains  Courageous,  410 
Captain  Singleton,  209 
Carleton,  309,  375 
Caroline  Evelyn,  280 
Carroll,  308,  374 
Casibus  Virorum,  118 
Cassandre,   181 
Castle  Rackrent,  282 
Castles  of  Athlen,  267 
Castle  of   Otranto,  200,   263-4, 

265 
Caxton,  63,  67,  68,  81,  94,  110, 

117,  140 
Caxtons,  The,  304 


434 


INDEX 


Cecilia,  281 
Celt  and  Saxon,  360 
Cervantes,  248,  251 
Champion  of  Virtue,  264 
Chansons  de  Geste,  59,  74 
Characters,  161 
Characters  of  Virtues,  161 
Character  Sketches,   161,  203 
Charlemagne  Legend,  64,  65,  73, 

77 
Charles,  375 
Charles  O'Malley,  309 
Charms,  6 
Chaucer,    55,    63,    67,    73,    105, 

108,    111,    113,   118,   119-126, 

130,  131,  132,  133,   134,  135, 

136,  140,  163 
Chesterton,  357,  361 
Chettle,  177 
Child  of  Bristow,  113 
Children  of  the  Ghetto,  386 
Children  of  the  Mist,  398 
Christie  Johnstone,  344 
Christian,  The,  385 
Christian  Changes,  24 
Christ's  Descent,  33 
Chronica  Major,  81 
Chronicle     (Anglo-Saxon),    43, 

55 
Chronicle    ( Holinshed's ) ,  180 
Cinq-Mars,  301 
Cinthio,  118 
Clarissa     Harlowe,     200,     201, 

222-4 
Classical  Matter,  66 
Classicism,   198 
Clayhanger,  387 
Cleg  Kelly,  382 
Clelie,  181 
Collins,  308,  366 
Colloquies  on  Society,  307 
Colonel  Jack,  209,  210 
Coming  Race,  304 
Comte  de  la  Charette,  94 
Confessio  Amantis,  70,  105,  113, 

133,  140 
Coning  shy,  318 
Conta/rini  Flemmg,  316 


Continuation  of  Arcadia,  172 

Cooper,  227,  301,  386 

Corelli,  386 

Country  House,  405 

Craik   (Mulock),  312,  342 

Cranford,  342,  343 

Crestien  de  Troyes,  79,  87,  92, 

94 
Crist,  33,  37 
Crochet  Castle,  374 
Crockett,  370,  381,  382 
Croker,  309 

Cronycles  of  England,  81 
Crown  of  Life,  372 
Cumberland,  280 
Cursor  Mundi,  116,  117 
Cynewulf,  32 


Dam^iel,  26 

Daniel  Deronda,  350,  351,  352 

Danish  Influence,  4,  8,  47 

d'Arblay,  281 

David  Balfour,  369 

David  Simple,  200,  239 

Day,  171,  271 

Day  of  Judgment,  30 

Days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  381 

De  Bello  Trojano,  67 

de  Borron,  99 

Decameron,  118,  120 

De  Claris  Mulieribus,  118 

De  Excidio  et  Conquestu,  79 

Defoe,  100,  137,  143,  159,  161, 
162,  173,  177,  187,  189,  192, 
199,  200,  204-210,  211,  215, 
216,  233,  238,  263,  278,  311, 
368 

de  France,  Marie,  79 

Dekker,  171,  178-180 

Delectable  Duchy,  403 

De  Morgan,  395 

Demos,  372 

Deor's  Complaint,  18,  21 

Derelicts,  400 

Desmond,  275 

Destiny,  311 


435 


INDEX 


Destruction  of  Troy,  67 

Detective  Story,  307,  389 

de  Troyes,  Crestien,  79 

de  Vigny,  301 

de  Villeneuve,  106 

de  Waurin,  81 

Diamond  Ship,  386 

Diana  of  the  Crossways,  358 

Diary  of  a  Pilgrimage,  386 

Dickens,  173,  226,  227,  230, 
288,  290,  291,  292,  307,  313, 
314,  319-330,  334,  336,  337, 
340,  341,  342,  343,  351,  355, 
362,  366,  371,  379 

Dickenson,   152 

Disraeli,  282,  313-319,  330 

Don  Quixote,  201,  229,  279 

Don  Simonides,  152 

Doyle,  366,  379,  388-9 

Dream  of  the  Rood,  33 

Dr.  Jekyll  anc^  Mr.  Hyde,  368, 
369,  370 

Dr.  Thome,  356 

Dumas,  330,  389 

Du  Maurier,  366 

Duchess  of  Newcastle,  145,  181- 
2 

Dryad,  380 

E 

Earle,  161 

East  Lynne,  342,  375 

Ebers,  301 

Ecclesiastical  History,  25 

Edgeworth,   184,   194,  272,  280, 

282-3,  309 
Egan,  322 

Egoist,  The,  358,  359,  360 
Elene,  32,  33 
Eliot    (Evans),    220,   290,    343, 

348-354,   355,   358,   359,   362, 

366,  378,  379,  383 
Ema/re,  89 
Emma,  290 

Endymion,  77,  314,  318 
English  Adventures,  183 
~     lish  Arcadia,  172 


Erec,  94 

Erie  of  Toulouse,  89 
Ernest  Maltravers,  304 
Eternal  City,  385 
Euphues,  145,  167 
Euphues,  His  Censure,  151 
Euphuism,  145,  152,  155 
Evan  Harrington,  358,  359 
Evelina,  201,  216,  280-1 
Eve^s  Ransom,  372 
Ewing,  375 
Exeter  Book,  6,  32 
Exiles  in  Babylon,  375 
Exodus,  26 

F 

Fabliaux,  61 

Fwrie  Queen,  77 

Fair  Jilt,  185 

Fair  Syrian,  274 

Falls  of  Princes,  118,  135 

Farewell  to  the  Military  Pro- 
fession, 139 

Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd, 
365 

Fashionable  Tales,  282 

Fates  of  the  Apostles,  33 

Felix  Holt,  350 

Fenelon,  145 

Eenton,  139 

Fenvnck's  Career,  383 

Ferdinand   Count  Fathom,   241 

Ferrier,  311,  341 

Fielding,  H.,  173,  189,  194,  217, 
225,  228-239,  242,  248,  261, 
291,   328,   333,   363,   375,  379 

Fielding,  S.,  223,  239 

Finish  of  the  Adventures  of 
Tom,  Jerry,  and  Logic,  323 

Fitz  of  Fitzford,  302 

Five  Years,  312 

Florent,  133 

Flower  of  France,  380 

Folk  Afield,  398 

Folk  Tales,  57,  140 

Fool  of  Quality,  269,  271 

Ford,  160 


436 


INDEX 


Foreign  Influences,  47,  48,  49, 
50,  55,  104,  135,  173,  181, 
379 

Fortunate  Foundling,  216 

Fox,  180,  189 

Framley  Parsonage,  356 

Frankenstein,  268,  307 

Fraternity,  406 

Friar  and  the  Boy,  61 

Friar  Bacon,  112,  181 

Friar  Rush,  112 

From   a   College    Window,    394 

From  a  Cornish   Window,  403 

Fuller,  269 

Furze  the  Cruel,  397 

G 

Gaimar,  81 

Galsworthy,   405-6-7 

Gait,  301,  311 

Oarga/ntua  and  Pantagruel,  144 

Gaskell,  324,  342-4,  350,  351 

Gawain  Story,  96 

Genesis,  26,  27 

Gentleman  of  France,  386 

Geoffrey  Hamlyn,  374 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,   55,  66, 

67,  80,  82,  83,  84,  86,  98 
George-a-Green,  141 
Gesta  Romanorum,  73,  114 
Ghost  of  Guy,  113 
Gil  Bias,  201 
Gissing,  9,  371-4 
God  in  the  Car,  386 
God^s  Good  Man,  386 
Godwin,  144,  269,  273,  275 
Golden  Butterfly,  374 
Goldsmith,  195,  256,  258-262 
Gottfried  von  Strassburg,  92 
Gower,  70,  105,  113,  118,  132- 

134,  136,  140 
Grace  Abounding,  187 
Grant,  310 
Gratton,  309 
Graves,  193,  201,  279 
Great  Hoggarty  Dicmiond,  331, 

338,  339 


Great  Shadow,  389 

Good  and  the  Bad,  161 

Gothic   Fiction,   262,   263,   266, 

268,   276,  295,   302,   307,   324 

345,  346,  366, 
Greene,  151,  152-160,  173,  178, 

311 
Green  Fadry  Book,  381 
Griffith,  278 
Grimeston,  139 
Groafs  Worth  of  Wit,  154 
Guevara,  147 
Guido  of  Sicily,  67 
Guingamor,  87 
Gulliver's  Travels,  145, 196,  210, 

212 
Guls  Home  Book,  172,  178,  179 
Guthlac,  33 
Guy  of  Wa/rwick,  57,  69,   139, 

181 


Haggard,  355,  386 

Eajji  Baba,  310 

Hakluyt,  180 

HaU,  161 

Handlyng  Sinne,  81,  113 

Ea/ndy  Andy,  304 

Hardy,  361-6,  369,  399 

Haring,  301 

Harington,  145 

Harold,  304,  305 

Harrowing  of  Hell,  30 

Harry  Richmond,  359 

Hartland  Forest,  302 

Havelok,  58,  65,  84 

Haven,  The,  398 

Hawkins  (Hope),  311,  370,  386 

Haws,  135 

Hawthorne,  227 

Haywood,  216-9 

Headlong  Hall,  374 

Heart  of  Midlothia/n,  298 

Heather,  397 

Helheck  of  Bannisdale,  383 

Henly,  266 

Henrietta  Temple,  311 


437 


INDEX 


Henry,  280 

Henry  Esmond,  330,   335,   337, 

338,  339 
Henry  IV,  151 
Henry  Richmond,  359 
Herewurd,  57 
Hermsprong,  273,  275 
Hewlett,  386,  387 
Hichens,   407,  408 
Highlanders  in  Spain,  310 
Hist  or  ia  Britonum,  79 
Historic  Tales,  269 
Historical  Romance,  269 
History  of  Britain,  66 
History  of  Four-footed  Beasts, 

149 
History   of   Lady   Lucres,    139, 

140 
History  of  Serpents,  149 
History   of  the   British  Kings, 

66,  80,  98 
Holcroft,  274 
Holinshed,  180 
Holy  Grail  Legend,  64,  61,  84, 

94,  100 
Holy  Living,  180 
Holy  War,  189 
Homilies,  47 
Hook,  314,  322 
Horn,  King,  57,  65 
Horn  and  Rimenhild,  57 
Horn  Childe,  58 
House  Beautiful,  375 
House  of  Fame,  135 
House  under  the  Sea,  386 
Hugh  Trevor,  274 
Hugo,  302 
Humphrey    Clinker,    201,    242, 

246,  249 
Hypatia,  345 
Hystorie  of  Hamblet,  139 


Idalia,  216 
Idle  Thoughts,  386 
Inheritance,  311,  341 
Injured  Hv^bcmd,  216 


He  of  Guls,  171 

Illustrious  O^Hagan,  380 

II  Teseide,  67 

Image  in  the  Sand,  397 

Impressionism,  378 

In  a  Glass  Darkly,  375 

Inchhald,  271 

Ingoldshy  Legends,  312 

Initials,  341 

In  King's  Byways,  386 

Inland  Voyage,  370 

In  the  Days  of  the  Comet,  390 

In  the  Year  of  Jubilee,  372 

Invisible  Man,  392 

Irish  Dragoon,  309 

Irish  Fiction,  309 

Island  Pharisees,  405 

It    'Never    Can   Happen  Again, 

397 
Ivmihoe,  294,  296,  300 


Jack  Shepard,  302 

Jack  Wilton,  174 

James,  G.,  302,  330,  375 

James,  H.,  379 

James  Wallace,  273 

Jane  Eyre,  345,  346,  347 

Janefs  Repentance,  350 

Jerome,  386 

Jocelyn,  405 

John  Halifax,  312,  342 

John  Inglesant,  374 

Johnson,   256-8,   259,   266,  280, 

299 
Johnstone,  262-3 
Jonathan  Wild,  189,  200,  232 
Jonson,  151,  171,  173 
Joseph  Andrews,  194,  200,  229, 

233,  234,  236 
Joseph  of  Exeter,  67 
Joseph   Vance,  397 
Journal    of    the    Plague    Yea/r, 

206,  210,  278 
Journal  of  the  Voyage,  238 
Journey  from  this  World,  232 
Jude  the  Obscure,  363 


438 


INDEX 


Judith,  41 

Julia  de  Rouhigne,  279 

Julicma,  33 

Jungle  Book,  410 

Juman  MS.,  27 


Kate  Carnegie,  381 

Katerfelts,  374 

Kavanagh,  375 

Kenelm  Chillingly,  304 

Kennedy,  301 

Kidnapped,  368,  369,  370 

Kim,  410 

Xm^r  Richard,  269 

JS^tw^  "Solomon's  Mines,  386 

Kingsley,  C,  270,  342,  346 

Kingsiey,  H.,  374 

Kingston,  375 

Kipling,  311,  390,  409,  410,  411 

Kipps,  392 

Knight's  Tale,  67,  119,  125 

Koran,  278 


La  Chronique  du  Rdgne,  302 

Ladies  Looking  Glass,  185 

Lady   Good-for-Nothing,  403 

Lady  Merton,  383,  384 

Lady  Rose's  Daughter,  383 

La  Folic  Tristan,  92 

La  Freine,  90 

Lancelot,  94 

Lancelot  Story,  94 

Land  of  Cokayne,  61 

Lang,  381 

Langland,    54,    105,    111,    127- 

132,  134 
Last  Chronicle  of  Barset,  356 
La^t  Days  of  Pompeii,  304,  305, 

307 
Last  of  the  Barons,  304,  305 
Last  of  the  Irish  Sarpints,  309 
Launval,  88 
Lavengro,  344 
Layamon,  55,  60,  67,  80,  84 


Lee,  265 

Le  Fann,  375 

Legend  of  Good  Women,  118 

Le  Grand  Cyrus,  181 

Leland,  263 

Le  Sage,  248,  337 

Le  Morte  Arthur,  95 

Lever,  309,  330 

Lewis,  268 

Life  in  London,  322 

Life's  Morning,  372 

Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish 

Life,  301 
Literary    Conditions,    110,    118, 

192 
Little  Minister,  381 
Little  Schoolmaster  Ma/rk,  374 
Lives  of  the  Saints,  62 
Livre  des  Eneydes,  68 
Locke,   398,  400-401-02 
Lod^e,  151,  162-4,  173 
""Tiongsword,  263 

Looking  Backward,  145,  304 

Lorna  Doone,  355 

Lothair,  318 

Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham,  392 

Love  in  Excess,  216 

Lover,  282,  283,  309 

Lover's  Watch,  185 

Lydgate,  67,  73,  118,  135-7,  140 

Lyly,  145-151,  155,  173 

Lyly's  Imitators,  151 


MacDonald,  374 

Mackenzie,  278 

Madeleine,  375 

Maiden    and    Married    Life    of 

Mary  Powell,  375 
Malory,  92,  93,  94,  95,  101,  102, 

103,   110,   117,   125,   138,   140 
Mamillia,  153,  155 
Mammon  and  Co.,  396 
Mandeville,  105,  134,  137 
Man  from  the  North,  386 
Man  in  the  Moon,  144 


439 


INDEX 


Manley,    182,    183-4,    203,   216, 

278 
Manning,  81,  84 
Man  of  Devon,  405 
Man  of  Feeling,  278 
Man  of  Law's  Tale,  120 
Man  of  Property,  405 
Man  of  the  World,  279 
Mansfield  Park,  290 
Mansie  Wauch,  312 
Map,  81,  84,  101 
Manzoni,  302 
Mareella,  383 

Margarite  of  America,  162 
Marie  de  France,  79,  87,  120 
Marjorie,  380 
Markham,  172 
Marriage,  311,  341 
Marriage  a  la  Mode,  383,  384 
Marryat,  309 
Marsh,  375 

Ma/rtin  Chuzzlewit,  321 
Martineau,  312 
Mary  Barton,  342 
Master  of  Ballantrae,  368,  370 
Matter  of  Britain,  77 
Matter  of  France,  73 
Maturin,  308 
Maxwell,  310 
McCarthy,  309,  380 
Me  and  Myn,  382 
Melbancke,  152 
Melmoth,  308 
Melville,  374 
Memorials     of     Gormandizing, 

331 
Memoirs  of  a  Cai^alier,  206 
Memoirs    of   a   Certain   Island, 

216 
Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality, 

245 
Memoirs  of  Qaudentio,  145 
Memoirs     of     Martinus     Scrih- 

lerus,  251 
Memoirs    of    Sherlock    Holmes, 

389 
Menaphon,  151,  154,  157 
Men  of  the  Moss  Hags,  382 


Men  of  the  Mountains,  382 

Meredith,    357-361,    362,    369 

Merely  Mary  Ann,  386 

Merlin,  83,  89 

Merlin  Story,  98 

Merimee,  301 

Microcosmo  graphic,  161 

Middlemarch,  350,  352,  353,  354 

Miller's  Tale,  119 

Mill  on  the  Floss,  343,  350,  351 

Minstrels,  56,  109 

Mirror  of  Modesty,  153,  155 

Miseries  of  Mavillia,  161 

Miss  Betsy  Thoughtless,  217 

Mitford,  312 

Moir,  312 

Moll  Flanders,  209,  210 

Monastery,  151 

Monk,  268 

Monk's  Tale,  118,  120,  135 

Montaigne,  145 

Moonstone,  308,  366 

Moorla/nd  Cottage,  343,  351 

Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne,  400 

Morando,  153 

More,  142-5,  175,  307 

Morgan   (Lady),  309 

Morier,  310 

Morning  Star,  386 

Morris,  355,  367 

Morte  Arthur,  102 

Morte  Arthure,  117 

Morte   d'Arthur,    81,    103,    117, 

125,  138,  140 
Morte  d' Arthur  Story,  102 
Mother  of  the  Man,  398 
Mount  fort,  171 
Mount  Henneth,  274 
Mr.  Badmam,  189 
Mr,  GilfiVs  Love  Story,  350 
Mr.  Midshipman  Easy,  310 
Mr.  Polly,  391 
Mrs.     Hallehurton's     Troubles, 

375 
Mulock    (See  Craik) 
Munday,  151 
Murder  of  Delicia,  386 
My  Devon  Yea/r,  398 


440 


INDEX 


My  Novel,  304 

Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  267 

N 

Nash,  153,  159,  164,  173-7,  178 

Nature  and  Art,  272,  273 

Nennius,  66,  79 

Nether  World,  372 

Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,  311, 

344 
New  Atlantis,  144 
New  Canterbury  Tales,  387 
Nevycomes,  331,  335,  339 
New  Grub  Street,  372 
New  Machiavelli,  392 
News  from  Hell,  178 
Nightmare  Abbey,  374 
Nineteenth       Century       Social 

Changes,  284-5 
Nine  Worthies,  71,  112 
Nibelungen  Lied,  3 
Norman  England,  50 
Norman  Influences,  48,  49,  50, 

55,  104 
North  and  South,  342 
Northanger  Abbey,  287 
Norton,  375 
Notre  Dame,  302 
Novel  of  Manners,  278,  313 
Novel   of   Purpose,   or   Problem 

Novel,  262,  269,  292,  391 
Nun's    Priest's    Tale,    63,    120, 

122 


Occleve,  118 
Oceana,  145 
Odd  Woman,  372 
O'Flynn,  381 
Ogilvies,  312 
Old  Curiosity  Shop,  326 
Old  English  Baron,  264 
Old  Manor  House,  265 
Old  Mortality,  294,  296 
Old  St.  PoAiVs,  375 
Old  Wives'  Tale,  388 


Oliphant,  375 

Oliver  Cromwell,  302 

Opie,  341 

Ordeal  of  Richard  Fever  el,  358 

Orlando  Furioso,  139 

Orm,  54 

Oroonoko,  185 

Our  Village,  312 

Overbury,  161 

Owenson,  309 


Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,  363 
Palace  of  Pleasure,  118,  139 
Palamon  and  Arcite,  68 
Paltock,  201 
Pamela,  161,  200,  204,  200-222, 

229,  277,  278 
Pamdosto,  153,  155,  15S 
Pan  His  Syrinx,  152 
Pardoner's  Tale,  120 
Paris  and  Vienne,  117 
Paris,  81 
Parismus,  160 
Parthenissa,   182 
Passages   in    the  Life   of  Ma/r- 

garet  Maitland,  375 
Pastoral  Called  Arcadia,  171 
Patricia  at  the  Inn,  397 
Pay,l  Clifford,  304,  524 
Paulding,  301 
Pausanius,  i504 
Peacock,  374     \ 
Pelham,  304 
Pemberton,  386 
Pendennis,  333 
People  of  the  Mist,  386 
Peregrine  Pickle,  200,  240,  242, 

243,  249 
Pericles,  70 
Persuasion,  290 
Peifer  Simple,  310 
Pe^er  WiZ/ctn^,  201 
Phillips,  182 
Phillpotts,    398-400 
Philomela,   158 
Philotimus,  152 


441 


INDEX 


Phoenix,  33 
Physiologus,  64 
Picaresque  Tales,  173,  295 
Pickwick  Papers,  323 
Pierce  Penniless,  164,  174 
Piers  Plowman,  105,  111,  127 
Pilgrimage  of  Charlemagne,  75 
Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,  304,  306 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  189 
Plain  Man's  Pathway,  188 
Plain  Tales,  410 
Plato,  144 

Plutarch's  Lives,  180 
Poe,  264,  308,  389 
Polexandre,  181 
Ponthus  et  Sidoine,  58 
Porter,  269,  277,  301,  306 
Poste  with  a  Packet,  161 
Power  of  Love,  183 
Pownall,  269 
Practice  of  Piety,  188 
Prentiship,  177 
Pride  and  Pr\ejudice,  287,  341, 

348 
Princess  of  Thule,  355 
Princess  Sophia^  397 
Prioress'  Tale,  120 
Prisoner  of  Zenda   386 
Prodigal  Son,  385 
Prologue  (Chaucer),  108,  111 
Pro  Patria,  386 
Protestant,  302 
Pulci,  118 


Quaint  Dispute,  159 
Queen's  Quair,  387 
Queste  del  St.  Oraal,  101 
Quiller-Couch,  398,  402-5 

E 

Rabelais,  251 
Radcliffe,  266-8 
Raiders,  382 
Raleigh,  180 
Rasselas,  200,  256-8,  266 


Ravenswing,  331 

Reade,  283,  311 

Realism,  285,  311,  344,  355,  371 

Reaping,   397 

Recess,  265 

Recueil  or  Complete  History  of 
Britain,  81 

Recuyell  of  the  Historyes  of 
Troye,  67 

Reeve,  264,  269 

Reeve's  Tale,  119 

Rememhranoes  of  Mrs.  Overthe- 
way,  375 

Repentance,  154 

Republic  (Plato's),  144 

Resurrection,  30 

Return  of  the  Native,  363 

Return  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  389 

Reynard  the  Fox,  63,  122,  140 

Rice,  374 

Richardson,  150,  161,  171,  173, 
182,  194,  197,  204,  209,  216, 
219-228,  229,  230,  231,  233, 
238,  239,  242,  248,  256,  277, 
278,  288,  289,  291,  344,  375 

Richard  Yea  and  Nay,   387 

Riche,  139,  152 

Richelieu,  302 

Rienzi,  304,  305,  307 

Rise  of  Prose,  180 

River,  The,  398 

Road  in  Tuscany,  387 

Robert  Elsmerd,  383 

Robert  Falconer,  374 

Robert  of  Brunne,  58,  113 

Robert  of  Gloucester,  81,  84 

Robin  Hood,   60,   111,   139,   141 

Robinson  Crusoe,  137,  206,  207 

Roderick  Random,  200,  201, 
240,  242,  246 

Roland  and  Vernagu,  76 

Romance  of  the  Forest,  267 

Roman  de  Renart,  120 

Roman  de  Troie,  66  ^ 

Romanticism,  285,  355 

Romany  Rye,  344 

Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  105 

Rookwood,  302 


442 


INDEX 


Rosalyndey  151,  162,  167 
Rousseau,  186,  256,  271 
Rupert  of  Eentzau,  386 
Ruth,  343 

S 

Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev.  Amos 
Barton,  350 

Saint's  Everlasting  Rest,  180 

Salem  Chapel,  375 

Sanford  and  Merton,  271 

Sayings  a/nd  Doings,  322 

Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,  350, 
351 

Schonberg-Cotta  Family,  375 

Scott,  151,  184,  220,  227,  261, 
263,  269,  277,  279,  282,  283, 
285,  286,  287,  288,  289,  290, 
291,  292-301,  305,  306,  307, 
311,  324,  32^,  330,  341,  344, 
348,  355,  356,  366,  367,  379, 
385,  386 

Scott's  Disciples,  301-3 

Scud^ry,  181 

Seafarer,  21 

Sea  Fiction,  309 

Sea  Wolves,  386 

Secret  Intrigues,  216 

Secret  Memoirs,  183 

Sense  and  Sensibility,  287,  288 

Sentimental  Journey,  250 

Sentimental  Tommy,  381 

Seven  Sages,  113 

Shadow  of  a  Crime,  385 

Shakespeare,  68,  70,  73,  77,  139, 
151,  152,  156,  162,  171,  187, 
251,   289,   297,   323,   341,  361 

She,  386 

Shelley  (Mrs.),  268,  317 

Shipman's  Tale,  120 

Shirley,  171 

Shirley,  346,  347 

Shorthouse,  374 

Sidney,  164-173 

Sege  of  Troy,  67 

Siegfried,  16 

Sigmund,  16 


Sign  of  the  Four,  389 

Silas  Marner,  350 

Silverado  Squatters,  370 

Simmes,  301 

Simon  the  Jester,  400 

Simple  Story,  271,  272 

Simple  Tales,  341 

Singular  Adventures,  98 

Sir  Charles  Grandison,  150,  194, 

200,  201,  225-8 
Sir  Cleges,  60 
Sir  Degare,  89 
Sir     Gawain    and    the     Green 

Knight,  61,  96,  117 
Sir  Gowghter,  89 
Sir  Launcelot  Greaves,  241 
Sir  Orpheo,  89 
Sir  Otuel,  76 

Sir  Roger  de  Clarendon,  269 
Sir    Roger    de    Coverley,    193, 

202-4,  298 
Sir  Tristram,  92 
Sixth  Book  to  Arcadia,  172 
Smith  amd  His  Dame,  63 
Smith,  C,  274 
Smith,  H.,  302 
Smollett,     173,     225,     239-249, 

252,  261,  262,  263,  288,  310 
Snaith,  397 
Sociable  Letters,  182 
Somehow  Good,  397 
Song  of  Roland,  3-,  73 
Son  of  Ethelwulf,  269 
Son  of  Hagar,  385 
Sorrows  of  Satan,  386 
Spectator,  171,  202 
Speculum  Meditantis,  133 
Spiritual  Quixote,  193,  201,  279 
Squire  of  Low  Degree,  71 
States  and  Empires,  144 
Steele,    192,    199,    200,    202-4, 

215    278 
Sterne,  197,  244-256,  278,  288, 

304,  306,  328 
Stevenson,  303,  366-371,  405 
St.  Leon,  269,  277 
Stickit  Minister,  382 
Stolen  Bacillus,  390 


443 


INDEX 


Stories  of  Waterloo,  310 

Story  of  Thehes,  135 

Stowe,  342,  383 

Strange  Fortunes,  161 

Straparola,  118 

Stuart  of  Dunleathy  375 

Stubbes,  109 

Study  in  Scarlet,  389 

Swinburne,  94 

Swift,  145,   196,  203,  204,  210- 

216,  270,  328,  335,  337 
Sylil,  318 


Tale  of  a  Tub,  210,  211 

Tale  of  Sir  Thopas,  124 

Tale  of  the  Basin,  61 

Tales  of  Real  Life,  341 

Tales  of  Terror,  307 

Talisma/n,  296 

Tancred,  318 

Tasso,  118 

Tatler,  202 

Tautphoeus,   341 

Taylor,  180 

Telemaque,  145 

Temple  of  Glas,  135 

Tenants  of  Wildfell  Hall,  374 

Tennyson,  94,  96 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year,  375 

Teseide,  119 

Tess  of  the  D'JJrhervilles,  363, 

364,  365 
Thackeray,   236,  281,  292,  302, 

314,   315,   326,   329-341,   351, 

355,  362,  375,  379 
Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  269 
Thebes,  Story  of,  67 
They  and  I,  386 
They  That  Walk  in  Darkness, 

386 
Thomas  of  Reading,  141 
Three  Men  in  a  Boat,  386 
Thyrza,  372 
Time  Machine,  392 
Tom  Burke,  309 


Tom    Jones,    200,    232-7,    278, 

333,  338 
Tono-Bungay,  389,  392 
Topsell,  149 

Tower  of  London,  302,  375 
Tragical  Discourses,  139 
Tragic  Comedians,  358 
Traits  a/nd  Stories,  309,  375 
Tragic  Muse,  379 
Travels    (Mandeville) ,  105,  137 
Travel  Story,  20,  105,  137,  310 
Travels  with  a  Donkey,  370 
Treasure  Island,  368,  370 
Trelawney,  302 
Trevena,  397,  398 
Trilby,  366 
Tristram  Shandy,  197,  200,  249, 

250,  251-6 
Tristram  Story,  91 
Troilus  and  Cresseide,  67,  125, 

126 
Trollope,  A.,  355-7 
Trollope,  Mrs.,  341 
Troy  Book,  67,  135 
Troy  Legend,  64,  65,  66,  73,  77 
Troy  Town,  403 
True  Tilda,  403 
Tucker,  375 
Turk  a/nd  Oa/wain,  97 

U 

Uncle  Silas,  375 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  187,  383 
Under  the  Red  Rose,  386 
Unfortunate  Traveller,  174 
Upton  Letters,  394 
Urania,  172 
Usurpers,  400 
Utopia,  42,  175 


Valentine  and  Orson,  117 
Vanity  Fair,  314,  331,  332,  335, 

337,  338,  339,  340 
Vathek,  266,  316 


444 


INDEX 


Vicar   of   Wakefield,    195,   200^ 

256,  258-262 
Villa  Ruh'ein,  405 
ViUette,  346,  348 
Virgi^,  112,  141 
Virginians,  331,  335 
Vision  of  the  Rood,  30 
Vivian  Orey,  314,  316,  317 
Voltaire,  145 
Vox  Clamantis,  133 
Voyages   (Hakluyt),  180 

W 

Wace,  QQ,  67,  81,  84 

Walladmor,  301 

Walpole,  263,  265 

Wanderer   (Anglo-Saxon),  19 

Wanderer   (Maturin),  308 

Ward,  383-5 

Warden,  356 

War  Fiction,  309 

War  in  the  Air,  390 

War  of  the  Worlds,  390,  392 

Warner,  152 

Warren,  375 

Watson,  312,  370,  380,  381 

WaA)erley,  282,  301,  303,  341 

Wayfarer,  397 

Wedding  of  Oawain,  98 

Wells,  390-394 

Westwa/rd  Ho,  342,  347 


Weyman,  370,  386 

When  a  Ma/n's  Single,  381 

When  the  Sleeper  Wakes,  390, 

392 
White,  269 
White  Company,  389 
Wickliffe,  54,  105,  107 
Widsith,  6,   16,  21,  35,  41 
William  of  Kewburgh,  80 
William  of  Palerne,  71,  112,  117 
Wilson,  301 

Window  in  Thrums,  381 
Windsor  Castle,  302 
Woma/n  in  White,  308,  366 
Wood,  341,  375 
Woodstock,  294 
Wroath,  172 
Wuthering  Heights,  345 


Yeast,  342 

Yellow  Fairy  Book,  381 

Yellowplush  Papers,  331 


Zangwill,  386,  388 
Zanoni,  306 
Zelauto,  151 
Zelmane,  171 
Zola,  372 


445 


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